


Solace

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Hogwarts Era, Multi, The Quidditch Pitch: Golden Trio, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-14
Updated: 2006-08-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 14:43:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10788807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." John 15:13Written Pre-HBP





	1. Harry

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: _Many, many thanks must go to Susan, who has looked at multiple copies of this and other chapters. Your help is deeply appreciated. Thanks must also go to Annika, whose comments and advice are always helpful in making my stories better. Thank you to Alexandra for looking this over, and offering some great advice. And of course, thanks to Allie, who is wonderful._  


* * *

“Harry….”

 

The whispered name is coming from somewhere...somewhere just beyond consciousness. The voice is familiar somehow...but he can’t place it.

 

“Harry?” 

 

There it is again, soft and questioning and sure all at the same time.  Harry Potter blinks his eyes open once, twice.  It’s dark in his dormitory, but by the moonlight streaming in from the tower window he can recognize the silhouette of a girl standing at the foot of his bed. 

 

She brings her face closer. “Harry, are you awake?” 

 

It’s Ginny Weasley. _What’s she doing here?_

 

Harry can only nod his head, still trying to blink away the sleep from his eyes, letting the girl come in focus. 

 

“Are you okay?” she whispers. “You were having a bad dream again.”

 

_He was?_

 

Ginny looks hesitant. “You were screaming in your sleep,” she tells him, her eyes shifting around the room 

 

Harry wonders how Ginny knew he’d been screaming in his sleep. Were his nightly yells so loud that he now was waking up the entire tower? He turns his head to see if Ron or any of his other dormitory mates have woken up. Harry realizes is that he is not, in fact, in his dormitory. He is at the Burrow, and it is Christmas time, and Ron isn’t in the room with him because Harry now has his own room at the Burrow, complete with Chudley Cannons posters that Mrs. Weasley thought he would like and an old Muggle lamp that Mr. Weasley had enchanted for him – so that it worked without electricity. 

 

This explains why Ginny has heard his screams – hers is the closest room to his – but why had he been screaming? 

 

_Oh._

 

It was stupid of him, really, to forget. It is always the same dream. It moves like a snowball through his mind.  Starting at the top of the mountain: his parents dying in a horrible flash of green light, his father shouting out, his mother begging for his life, screaming when her own is ripped from her.  He’s had this dream since his first encounter with the Dementors, his third year at Hogwarts. 

 

After his fourth year, the dream...grew. It didn’t really change so much as new horrors were added. 

 

There is Cedric, falling to the ground  – his eyes lifeless. 

 

And Wormtail...tying him to a grave, piercing his skin. 

 

And Voldemort: “Bow to death, Harry.” 

 

A multitude of hideous masked men, mocking him, laughing at his impending death. 

 

After his fifth year, of course, the dream grew again. The snowball grows larger - moving faster down the hill – moving so fast that Harry is unable to stop its inevitable course, until it overtakes him, burying him alive. Now, after he relives the horror in the graveyard, he is forced to watch his friends flee desperately from Death Eaters. He watches helplessly as a flash of light hits Hermione’s chest and she collapses to the ground. He watches Neville writhe about in pain as Lestrange _Crucio’s_ him. He watches that woman aim a spell at Sirius; watches his godfather fall through a veil – a veil that takes his life. 

 

There were enough horrors to last four lifetimes. But that isn’t the end. 

 

These last horrors that he has seen, they were what caused his screams tonight...because Ron...Ron. 

 

Ron.

 

It is too horrible to name. And entirely his fault. It is always his fault. 

 

With a wrenching sigh, Harry sits up. He is surprised to find Ginny’s eyes on him, glistening with unshed tears. He’d forgotten that she was even in the room.  She is outlined in pale moonlight that creates a halo around her too-bright hair.  He doesn’t want to talk to her. It had been her brother, after all, who had followed him down into the Shrieking Shack.  It had been her brother who had confronted Wormtail. 

 

Her brother who took the bolt of green light meant for Harry. 

 

Harry breathes in deeply, trying to quell the tears that lay just below the surface, trying to stop his heart from pounding...willing it to stop beating altogether so that he can just stop being so…that he can just stop living. 

 

“I’m sorry, Ginny,” he says in a tight, controlled voice, hoping she doesn’t hear the tremor beneath the surface.

 

Her eyes narrow slightly. “Don’t apologize, Harry. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

 

Harry feels a bitter laugh escape him. “Don’t I?”

 

“No,” Ginny answers firmly, “you don’t. Harry...Ron – well, he loved you. He would’ve – well….” She pauses, draws in a breath, distress evident in her eyes. “He would’ve –.” 

 

“He would’ve what, Ginny?” Harry cuts her off harshly. He moves to his knees, kneeling in front of the small girl. “He would’ve died for me? Is that what you were going to say?”  He glares at her, watching her face fall, watching a tear forge a path down her pale cheek, magnifying a freckle on its way down. 

 

Slowly, Ginny nods her head. The action causes more tears to slide down her face. It’s the sight of those tears that undo Harry.

 

“He _did_ die for me Ginny!” he tells her, no longer whispering, no longer concerned about controlling the anger in his tremulous voice. “And I didn’t ask him to. I never _asked_ anyone to.  But that never seems to matter, does it? Everyone puts their life on the line for Harry Bloody Potter because he’s so damn special! Well, I don’t want it! I don’t want to be special. I never asked for this.”

 

Ginny’s eyes darken, narrow, and become hard and soft all at once. She breathes in through her nose, her nostrils flaring as if she is trying to restrain her temper. But Harry has had enough of people treating him like a bomb.  He has had enough of politeness and pity and every damn person walking on eggshells around him. 

 

“Ron didn’t want to die. He didn’t and nothing you can say is going to change the fact that he did die. He died for me…the stupid…if everyone would just stop caring about me, maybe people would stop dying, and I wouldn’t hurt – this pain wouldn’t….” Harry pauses and gives a short cry, pressing his lips together in an attempt to muffle the sound. His breathing grows laboured; his heart begins pounding frantically against his chest; his eyesight grows fuzzy. 

 

“How could he? How could he just…just do that?” Harry brings his hands up, grinding the heels of them against his eyes in an effort to stop the memories that spring, unbidden, into his mind. But no matter how hard he presses, that day comes back to him, tumbling through his mind….

 

 

_They were waiting for them in Hogsmeade. It wasn’t a terribly brilliant plan on Wormtail’s part, but it didn’t matter. Even with all the Aurors and professors in the village to supervise,_ they _still managed to get Harry alone. Not that it was a difficult task. In the corridors, in the classroom, on the Quidditch pitch, the professors stalked him, never letting him out of their sight._ _When the opportunity came in Hogsmeade to break away from everyone without detection, Harry took it. And no one honestly thought anything would happen._ Too quickly. _It was three weeks before Christmas. The_ _village was teaming with wizards and witches, braving the danger of You-Know-Who to shop or visit or have a butterbeer._

 

_Harry, Ron and Hermione had turned on the worn, but empty path that led to the Shrieking Shack, grateful to have a sunny, brisk day full of laughter and freedom…and happiness. Harry was happy. For the first time in a long time, he was happy. He watched Ron and Hermione walk a few paces ahead of him, smiling at one another, Hermione’s cheeks stained a pretty pink colour, Ron’s ears turning as red as his hair. He saw Ron’s hand slowly creep across the distance between the two of them and grasp Hermione’s hand in an awkward, earnest way that was touching, even to Harry._ _He put more distance between them, letting the new couple walk a few more paces ahead so that they could have this time, just the two of them. He thought about turning around, heading back into the village, maybe finding Neville or Ginny and spending the day with them to give his two best friends some much-needed alone time._

 

_Harry watched the tall redhead stop, turn around, and call out to him. “Harry, mate, c’mon! You’re walking so slowly.”_

 

_Hermione turned around, laughter in her eyes. “Yeah, c’mon Harry, let’s go!” She gestured with the hand that held Ron’s, urging him forward. “You can hold my other hand if you want,” she teased, holding out the hand._

 

_Harry laughed, shook his head._

 

_“You want to hold my hand, then?” Ron joked, holding out his arm as well, causing both Harry and Hermione to laugh. Harry made a gesture at Ron that made the older boy guffaw as Hermione screeched his name._

 

_“I’m fine, you two. Don’t worry. I’m just a little behind you.”_

 

_“You sure?” asked_ _Hermione, looking around._

 

_“Yeah, I’m sure.”_

 

_“All right, Harry,” Ron said. He seemed to sense Harry’s longing to be alone. “Just be careful.” He hesitated. “And don’t fall too far behind, okay?” Ron blushed, obviously embarrassed by telling Harry what to do._

 

_But Harry didn’t really mind, today. It was good that they cared. It was nice._

 

_“G’ahead,” he demanded affectionately. “I’m okay.”_

 

_Harry watched his friends turn around. He watched them walk away, holding hands, their legs moving in unison, their arms swinging between them as they strode further up the path, farther away from the village…from protection._

 

 

“Harry.” 

 

Ginny’s voice brings the memories to an abrupt halt. “I know that Ron didn’t want to…to die, but he did.” She draws in a shaky breath. “And he did so to protect you. You would have done the same for him. You would have done the same for just about anyone. It’s okay… it’s okay…you’re allowed to….” 

 

“I’m allowed to…what?” Harry prompts brutally. 

 

Ginny’s voice is quiet. “You’re allowed to be angry with him,” she says simply.

 

“I’m not angry with him,” Harry growls. He lets his hands fall limply to his sides.  “I’m not…I’m angry with….” Harry trails off. Ginny is watching him with round eyes, still wet and red with tears. He isn’t angry with Ron. He isn’t.  It’s ridiculous to be angry with Ron. Ron is dead. Dead.  He isn’t mad at a dead person, not his parents, not Cedric, not Sirius and certainly not Ron. He isn’t angry with them; not because they all died for him or because of him. Not because they all thought he was someone worth dying for…not when he never wanted people to die. He wants them back. What good is saving the world if there’s no one left to save? 

 

 

_Harry watched them walk away, happy. He stood in the sunshine, squinting slightly behind his glasses against the bright winter light that shimmered with everything good. He never felt the Stunning Spell. He didn’t even remember the world going black._

 

_He just remembered looking around, wondering how he had gotten there and where his glasses had gone. His eyes traveled over the familiar walls, stained so red with blood spilled long ago that they were almost black. It hurt to look for long. His head hurt, and his eyes burned, and his body ached. He tried to move, but soon realized he was bound to the bed that resided in the middle of the Shrieking Shack. Panic set in._

 

_And he heard her laugh._

 

_Harry whipped his head around. With blurry eyes he watched Bellatrix Lestrange move toward him. She was quiet. She came to the edge of the bed and pulled something out of her robes. Harry winced involuntarily, anticipating a wand, causing mad laughter to pour from her lips. She didn’t pull out a wand. Instead, she took his broken glasses from her pocket and placed them on the bridge of his nose, using one finger to slide them up until her ravaged face came fully in focus, her eyes alight with fury, glee and insanity._

 

_“Look at Harry Potter,” she said in a rough voice, obviously having forsaken the childish tongue he was used to her using. “Look at him now. He is not brave! He is not bold! He is weak and he can do_ nothing _.” More laughter issued from her mouth. It was joined with laughter from a corner of the room._

 

_Harry inclined his head and saw Lucius Malfoy and Peter Pettigrew standing in the corner. Malfoy’s eyes were hard and cruel, matching his laughter. His smug face held more lines than Harry remembered, probably evidence of his time spent at Azkaban. Pettigrew’s eyes were less cruel than Malfoy’s, but far less timid than they had been the last time Harry had seen him._

 

_“Harry Potter has no one to help him now.” Lestrange’s voice brought his attention back to her. “Where are your precious protectors, Potter? Where is your Order?”_

 

_She paused as if waiting for an answer. Harry glared at her, trying to figure out a way to stall, frantically racking his brain to see if there was any way he could possibly get out of this. His wrists and ankles were bound to the bed, stretched in opposite directions. He wondered if anyone knew he was here._

 

_Harry listened to Lestrange talk of making him ready, presumably for Voldemort. He was surprised the dark lord was not there already, finishing him off quickly._

 

_Harry’s mind still searched for ways to escape. No doubt they had taken his wand when they stunned him. Maybe if he concentrated…maybe he could break free of the ropes that kept him pinned down. But what then? He didn’t have a wand; even if he did he was still out numbered…there was no hope…._

 

_“_ Crucio! _” Her voice had rung out completely unexpected. And the pain, it was as he remembered and yet so much worse. Within seconds, the wand fixed on him was joined by another, as Lucius Malfoy’s voice called out the painful curse as well._

 

_Harry screamed, the sound issuing from his throat, booming off the walls of the shack and echoing, shaking the small room with its intensity. The scream was so deafening that no one in the room heard the footsteps above. Nor did they hear the cry of_ “Accio _wands_ ” _that caused both Bellatrix’s and Lucius’ wands to stop their painful affliction and fly from their hands. Harry’s vision was hazy from the pain. All he could truly make out was a shock of red, standing at the entrance. Almost weeping with relief, Harry heard Ron’s voice cry out, “Professor! He’s down here! Someone hurry.”_

 

_Ron trained his wand on Bellatrix, staring at her with a fury Harry had never seen on his best friend’s face. He kept a tight grip on the Death Eaters wands in his left hand. Slowly, he moved into the room, his eyes sweeping around in circles. That was when he saw Wormtail. “You,” Ron growled at the man. Harry saw Ron’s eyes grow wide at the sight of Pettigrew’s wand aimed at his chest, obviously surprised he still held it._

 

_Pettigrew gave a cold smile and said, "Hello, Ron,” in a quiet, steely voice – very unlike the whimpering, pathetic voice he had last used in this room. “Accio –.”_

 

_Footsteps heard from above distracted Pettigrew. Ron, his eyes wide with terror, called out again for help. The footsteps grew louder, closer._

 

_“You fool,” Lestrange hissed to Wormtail. “Do it now! Master will not forgive you if we mess this up again.”_

 

_Pettigrew raised his wand slightly, aiming it at Ron, who in turn had raised his own. Time seemed to speed up and slow down simultaneously. Harry, still tied to the bed, began tugging furiously at his bindings, concentrating with all his might to break free of them, using both physical and mental force._

 

_Harry watched Wormtail move his wand off Ron and aim it at him. Still struggling to free his wrists, Harry watched Ron start toward him. His ears had begun to buzz; he felt as if he’d been submerged under water, and he couldn’t hear Ron’s shout. He could only watch his friend’s mouth form the word, “No.” He could only watch Pettigrew’s mouth form the words, “_ Avada Kedavra _” and he could only watch as a stream of green light poured from the end of Pettigrew’s wand, hitting Ron square in the chest._

 

_Noise._

 

_Noise hit his ears, and he realized that the sound was coming from his own throat as he yelled out Ron’s name. The room was suddenly full of people, people Harry recognized, but he could not identify. They were his professors and his guardians, but he could not call to mind any of their names. He heard three successive pops as the Death Eaters who had been there moments before Apparated out of the room. He looked on as his Headmaster rushed to Ron’s side. But it was too late._

 

 

“Why did he follow me?” Harry asks Ginny. He takes in a quick breath and swallows unsteadily. “I didn’t want  - I don’t…I don’t understand why he ….” 

 

Ginny’s eyes hold no answers. She takes a step closer to the bed so that her knees hit the edge of it, and moves one hand in front of his face, briefly touching the crown of his head. She says nothing, but her touch seems to uncoil something within Harry, something wound tight, something black and blue and purple – an ugly bruise on his heart. 

 

 

_Hermione was the worst. Watching her face was the hardest thing he’d ever done. It was harder even than watching Ginny cry silent tears and the twins’ shoulders shake with grief and Bill’s jaw set as he walked out of the room to grieve in private. Harder than watching…God…than watching Mr. Weasley stand over his son at the wake and place steady hands on his prone body, shutting the bright blue eyes for the last time. It was torture to watch Mrs. Weasley, as her worst fears were realized and a child of hers died because of the war, when she broke down at the funeral, her screams echoing off the walls of the cavernous room they were in._

 

_But Hermione, whose eyes were haunted and full of a dread that was terrifying in its intensity, was the worst. She walked around the Burrow in a shroud of grief that would not be broken. She spoke very little and her eyes were stained red from crying. Harry felt sure that she was blaming him for Ron’s death. He felt even surer that she was worried now what would happen to her. If Ron was capable of dying, then so was she. Harry feared she would never forgive him._

 

_Harry never cried. Tears were for after the last death, when he would have the luxury to mourn, when he would have the luxury of feeling the emotions that others took for granted. He would be a rock, stoic and_ _unbreakable. It was the only defence he had; it was his only mode of defeating Voldemort. So, at the wake, at the numerous memorial services, in class, at the Burrow…he did not cry. Not in front of anyone. His grief manifested itself in his dreams, more than even he realized._

 

 

Harry feels Ginny’s palm slip down his face and cup his cheek. He feels it press into him. He feels tears – horrible, weak, betraying tears – spring uninvited into his eyes. “I can’t…and Hermione – God – what does she think? What will she do…without him? What will I do without him? She must hate me…she must…it’s all my –.” 

 

“No, Harry,” Ginny says again, “it’s not your fault. Hermione is scared, mostly for you. She’s scared you’ll turn away from her…from everyone. She doesn’t hate you. She loves you. We…we all love you. We just want you to be okay. But you can’t keep everything locked up. You have to cry.”

 

“I can’t cry! I can’t be weak. I can’t let him win!”

 

He hears Ginny sigh. She moves her hand on his face. He shudders at the touch. It’s been so long since he let anyone touch him – even a hug, a handshake, a nudge on the elbow – he’s distanced himself so far that the wall he has built is both physical and mental.

 

“Harry, the only way he – Vol…Voldemort wins is if you shut down. If you become like him, he wins. You have to feel. You have to let yourself feel.” 

 

Harry looks into two bright, dark-brown eyes. They beg him to trust her. With a sob, he lunges forward. He, who never willingly touches anyone, grabs Ginny by her upper-arms and pulls her into a tight, desperate hug. 

 

The two of them cling together, both sobbing, until their eyes run out of salty tears and their breathing grows ragged, then calm. After what feels an eternity, Harry slides back onto his bed, pulling Ginny with him, and sleeps. 

End chapter one


	2. Hermione

Chapter 2: Hermione

It's cruel, the way the sun doesn't seem to be mourning his death. It's remarkable to Hermione when she wakes up every morning; the sun is still rising in the sky. It should stop; the whole world should stop. 

Her whole world had.

But the world does not stop, does not grieve, and the sun still rises, and sets and rises again. Its brightness mocks her – reminding her that she will never have his warmth, his light again.

Hermione blinks her eyes against the bright December sun glinting off the snow-covered ground and shining into the room she shares with Ginny. She berates herself for not remembering to shut the blinds before she went to bed. It's funny, a few weeks ago she would have remembered. 

Hermione always remembered. She never forgot to brush her teeth before bed or to write Christmas cards (even to ex-professors now locked up in St. Mungo's). She always remembered to say thank you and to wash her hands before meals. Now, though, she sometimes forgets her own name. _Now_ , she finds herself in the middle of a task with no recollection of how she got there or why she is doing it. She worries she will forget him as well. The scent of him; the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled; the timbre of his voice when he said her name like _that_ , for her ears alone.

Hermione glances in the direction of the bed next to her, expecting to see Ginny – her face relaxed in sleep, her bright hair fanned out beneath her – but Ginny's bed is empty. _How unusual_. Ginny seems to sleep in every day until well after ten. Hermione knows it's because the younger girl sleeps badly at night. She has woken Hermione up more times than is countable, screaming out for Ron, screaming out _against_ Riddle. 

Hermione wishes that she would dream. Even a nightmare about him would be better than nothing – at least she would see him, hold him in her mind.

Distantly, Hermione can make out the sizzle of bacon as it's thrown into a pan. She hears voices floating up the stairs – Mr. Weasley and Bill. Her stomach grumbles, urging her to move, get up, go to breakfast. 

Instead, she flips over. Hermione presses her face into the pillow, trying to block out the sunlight, knowing no matter how dark it gets there are some things she will never forget. Lying with her belly pressed against the mattress, she turns her head to the side, resting her cheek against the cool, cotton pillowcase. Almost involuntarily, her eyes turn inward. 

*

_"Hermione."_

_It was not a question. It wasn't a command or an admonishment. It was just her name. Hermione had the distinct impression he had said it for the mere pleasure of letting the word leave his lips. Because he had that right, to say her name whenever he pleased. He had had that right for some time now, but it seemed he had only just realized._

_She felt her lips curve into a smile. How did he do that? All he did was say her name. It hardly seemed proper, letting herself smile because she liked the rumble of his voice…because she liked the way her name sounded like a prayer when he said it, so slow and soft and beautiful._

_Hermione allowed her eyes to stray up to his bright blue orbs. They crinkled, almost disappearing into his face as he matched her smile. She said his name back to him, "Ron," wishing his name was longer, that it had more syllables for her to pronounce._ "Ron" _never seemed majestic enough for someone who made her feel so alive. She tried his full name. "Ronald," she said in a voice lower than usual. Hermione felt her cheeks grow warm when she realized he was studying her mouth. Maybe tonight would be the night._

_It had been nearly two weeks since the students returned to Hogwarts after a long and stressful summer break. It was wonderful to be back. Hogwarts felt safe, smelled of books and parchment and ink, sounded like laughter and students and learning. And even if the laughter was more subdued than in years past, it was better than being cramped in Twelve Grimmauld Place, where everywhere one looked there were reminders of the war, of people they had lost, of people they might lose in the future._

_Since their return to school, Ron and Hermione had stayed up late together every night, pretending to study, but truthfully watching the fire…and each other. Hermione, for all her years of being Ron's friend, found herself inexplicably tense each night when the common room emptied. She chided herself time and time again for her nerves, telling herself it was only Ron…but that was the problem. He hadn't been ‘_ only Ron' _for sometime, now. And it seemed that he had just realized she wasn't ‘_ only Hermione. _'_

_The change in him would have been comical if she hadn't been struck by a fit of nerves every time she thought of him. He opened doors for her and offered to carry her books to class. Hermione refused the latter and a monstrous row had ensued about treating women like equals. But even that had shown a different side to Ron. For not two hours later, he came up to apologize and tell her that he respected her as both a woman and a human being. In the end, Hermione had relented, mostly because he had looked so earnest, and Ron began carrying her books to all of the classes they shared. Hermione burned with pleasure, although she tried very hard to cover it up, and even the snide remarks of Draco Malfoy could not quell the little frisson she felt every time Ron lifted her books from the table._

_The biggest change about Ron was one that only she seemed to notice. He smiled at her now, three or four times a day. Not the big, goofy grin he usually had, either. It was a small smile, that sometimes only happened with his eyes, and it was very obviously only meant for her._

_That was the smile he was giving her right now, as he stared hard at her mouth. The mouth that had just spoken his name aloud. The two were sitting on an overstuffed, squashy, red couch in the common room. The fire lit in the fireplace was the only source of light still illuminating the room; it caused Ron's hair to light up in a pattern of vivid reds and oranges. They were perched nearly on top of one another. The evenings always started out with the two of them on opposite ends of the couch, but by nights’ end they had usually found excuses to be side-by-side, their legs almost touching._

_They were alone. And it was quiet._

_Dimly, Hermione saw Ron's hands slowly move to the book she held on her lap. Her whole body had started to buzz. She felt the weight of the book leave her lap and saw him fold down the corner to mark her place before laying the book on the floor. He cleared his throat. "I…um. I don't think you should read right now…."_

_Hermione felt a protest form on her lips – they had an important test next week – but much to her surprise she nodded and, instead of saying anything, licked her lips. What in the name of Merlin had happened to her? She brought her eyes up to Ron's face again and saw, even in the dim light, his cheeks had flushed to a bright shade of fuchsia, causing his freckles to appear almost purple against his skin._

_Hermione had a sudden urge to run her fingers along the heated curve of his cheek and she had to clasp her hands on her lap to keep from following her whim. She watched Ron's Adam's apple bob in his throat, watched his lips fall open, felt her own cheeks heat again as she realized the two of them were staring at one another._

_"Hermione." He said her name again. She felt herself shiver._

_"Wh-." She couldn't get her voice to work properly. "What, Ron?" she tried again._

_He exhaled loudly. "I…." His hands were fidgeting in his lap, picking at a thread on his robes._

_His eyes narrowed slightly. "Oh, sod it!" he exclaimed, taking her by surprise and reaching for her with both hands. Before she had time to think about what was happening, Ron had grabbed her clasped hands in one of his and lowered his mouth in an unpracticed kiss._

_Immediately, the buzzing in Hermione's body stopped and was replaced by a swooping sensation in her belly…and lower. It seemed every part of her – her mouth trapped under his, her hands enveloped by his over-sized palm, the back of her head that he had just touched – was attached to_ that _part of her. It was frightening._

_She pulled away from him, her heart pounding, and her lips moist._

_"Ron," she whispered._

_"Oh, Merlin, Hermione! I'm sorry," he exclaimed in a loud voice. "I didn't mean to do that. You were just sitting there and I've been thinking about doing that for a while now and…bloody hell -."_

_"Don't swear, Ron."_

_"-Sorry – it's just you looked really pretty…." Ron trailed off and looked at her._

_She stared right back, a smile forming of its own accord across her face. "You thought I looked pretty?" she asked quietly._

_Ron gulped. "You always look pretty." His eyes were darker than she remembered. "You know I think you're pretty, right?"_

_Hermione shook her head slowly. She couldn't control the smile that was growing bigger by the moment. It was a couple seconds before she had the presence of mind to say, "Thank you."_

_Ron grinned. "You're welcome."_

_Hermione chewed on her lip, trying to think of something to say. "So…" was all she could come up with._

_"So," Ron echoed. He cleared his throat again. "D'you reckon you want to go with me to Hogsmeade, next time?" His eyebrows were drawn together as if he actually expected a negative response._

_Hermione felt her eyes crinkle. She nodded. He smiled. And it seemed they were inseparable from that moment on._

_*_

 

"Hermione, dear!" Mrs. Weasley's voice shakes her out of her reverie. Hermione is only slightly surprised to find her pillow has been soaked with tears. Sometimes she thinks it would be easier to forget.

There is a knock on the door. Hermione clears her throat, wishing she had some water. "Come in," she says, her voice scratchy from sleep and tears. She watches the door swing open, and sees Mrs. Weasley framed in the doorway. "Good morning, dear." Mrs. Weasley strides into the room. Her eyes take in Hermione's tear-stained cheeks, but she remains quiet on the subject. She sits down on the edge of Hermione's bed. "Ginny and Harry are already downstairs eating. I just came up to make sure you were okay." 

That is where Ginny is. _Already at breakfast with…Harry?_ Hermione nods. She smiles at Ron's mum. _Ron's mum_ …it hurts too much to think of her that way. Mrs. Weasley returns the smile. She places a hand on Hermione's shoulder and gives it a light squeeze. "I'll be right down, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione tells her. 

"All right," the older witch says softly. "Take your time." She heads out the door. 

Hermione slides out of bed, her feet automatically finding her slippers. She puts on an old, pink dressing gown her mum had given her two summers ago. It's warm and fluffy and used to bring her so much joy, just to put it on. Where did that go? Where did the pleasure she used to get from minuscule acts go? It seems to have died along with him. 

Hermione glances in the mirror set at eye level by the door to Ginny's room. 

Goodness, she looks frightful. Sighing resignedly, she searches the room for a hair-tie. There's nothing to be done with her blotchy cheeks and red nose, but at least she can pull her hair back so as not to scare people into thinking it will come alive at the breakfast table. 

After securing her hair at the nape of her neck, Hermione sets off for the kitchen. Harry and Ginny are the only two in the room, sitting side by side, talking quietly. A glance at the clock tells her Mr. Weasley and Bill have already Apparated to work. Harry looks up, his bright-green eyes clearer than they have been in weeks, but with tell-tale red marks around their edges. 

Much to Hermione's surprise, he gives her a small smile. She slides into the seat across from him, where a plate has been made up for her. "Hi," she says quietly.

"Hey, Hermione," Harry says, looking intently at her. "How're you?" 

_How is she?_ "Oh, y'know. I'm okay."

Harry nods. It appears he does know.

"Ginny," Hermione addresses the younger witch, "what time did you get up?"

To Hermione's surprise, Ginny blushes and glances at Harry _. Oh dear, has she resorted to her old crush?_ But no, Harry's cheeks turn slightly pink as well. "I woke up about half an hour ago," Ginny says too casually, which must be a lie, because Hermione was awake then. 

Hermione narrows her eyes and looks from Ginny to Harry, both of whom have become engrossed in their breakfast, but she says nothing. 

Harry looks at her again. He clears his throat rather nervously and pushes his half-eaten plate of eggs away from him. "Um…Hermione?"

"Yes, Harry?" 

"Ginny and I were talking about going into the village to get…um…to get Christmas presents, later this afternoon. D'you think you want to come with us?"

_Christmas presents?_ _Was it_ …oh goodness, another thing she forgot. Today is Christmas Eve. Hermione longs to tell him, ‘no'. She would rather sit in her room and stare outside until night falls, but it has been so long since Harry has made any kind of effort, and she knows that hiding from the world will not make things better, so she agrees. 

The twin smiles that light up both Ginny and Harry's faces cause her a moment of guilt for longing to refuse. 

After showering and throwing on some Muggle clothes, Hermione finds Ginny and Harry sitting in the front room, legs touching, and hands clasped. Something has happened between the two of them; that much is obvious. And Hermione guesses that whatever has passed between them, it is what's causing the change in Harry. Not for the first time, Hermione feels a rush of gratitude toward Ginny Weasley. 

"Hey, you two," she says as she comes into the room. "You ready?"

"Yeah." Ginny stands up after pulling her hand out of Harry's grip. "Let's go…Mum!" Ginny yells up the stairs. "We're ready to go to the village."

"Okay," comes Mrs. Weasley's reply. "Wait just a moment and I'll be down."

The group heads out into the bright noonday sun, walking next to one another, Harry flanked by the two girls. Mrs. Weasley is a few paces behind the teenagers, letting them have their space, but never leaving her eyesight. Hermione squints against the white light. It makes her dizzy; it brings to mind another day when she was walking along under a clear blue sky. She stumbles and feels Harry's hand grip her elbow. "All right, Hermione?" 

She nods, but she is lying. Despite Harry's steadying arm, she can't help but remember.

 

_Once they found out Harry was missing, she started to panic. The guilt set in almost immediately. She should have insisted Harry walk with them, but the truth was he had looked so peaceful, walking alone with his thoughts, and Hermione's mind was more occupied on the hand clasped in Ron's palm than whether or not any Death Eaters were lurking about the village._

_Ron amazed her. While Hermione felt a panic attack come on, Ron was steady. He told her to go find a professor or an Auror that she knew and trusted. He would go check in the shops to see if Harry had just wandered off and not told them. Neither mentioned that Harry would never scare them like that._

_Hermione found Tonks, with bright pink hair, standing outside the Three Broomsticks. She told her in a rushed, panicky voice that Harry was missing. The young Auror immediately sprang into action, pulling out a…mobile phone…? And saying something into it._

_Quite suddenly, the village was swarming with Aurors. Nearly every professor at Hogwarts, and many other adults Hermione recognized, came out onto the street. As Hermione explained to Tonks and Remus what had happened, she saw a flash of red rush by, in the direction from which she had just come._

_"Ron!" Remus shouted out. "Where are you going?"_

_Ron didn't stop. He rushed along toward the outskirts of village. Hermione and the others followed. They watched Ron rush into the Shrieking Shack, paying no heed to the number of adults who called out for him to wait, including Professor Dumbledore, who had appeared out of nowhere next to Hermione, seemingly in mid-stride._

_Then, Hermione heard Harry scream. It was awful, quite possibly the worst thing she'd heard. Until she heard him scream again._

_Ron's voice called through the walls of the shack, "Professor! He's down here! Someone hurry!"_

_Hermione nearly sobbed with relief. If Ron was asking them to hurry it meant that Harry was still alive. Hermione watched the Aurors and Professors she was with, along with other members of the Order – including Bill Weasley – rush into the shack. She heard Ron yell out again for help, and then she heard it – Harry's next scream – which stopped her dead in her tracks. His voice had been terrifying; it was loud to the point of shaking the shack; and it was for Ron._

_It was quite remarkable. She always thought Divination was for transparent fools who lied about seeing things before they actually saw them. But Hermione stood at the entrance to the Shrieking Shack, Harry's scream resonating in her head and her heart, and knew without a doubt what had happened._

_It would have been entirely unnecessary to go into the small, cramped room where she had once watched Ron, with a broken leg, move in front of Harry to protect him from who they thought was his stalker. She didn't need to go in and see Harry tied to the bed, watch his eyes mad with grief. She didn't need to see Ron lying on the floor in front of the bed, where he had stood to protect his best friend. She didn't need to see it to know what had happened, but she_ needed _to see it._

_Her legs moved, quite of their own accord, when she heard the faint popping sounds of people Apparating from within the shack. She opened the door and went down a narrow hallway. From the opposite end, perhaps a story beneath her, she could hear voices talking very fast and very loudly. Slowly, and as if in a trance, Hermione opened the door._

_She tried to breathe, but found it impossible. Her eyesight darkened. Oh, goodness...no. It was too much...too much. And Professor Dumbledore, he couldn't make it better. Hermione wanted to scream at him, he who was kneeling so calmly beside her best friend, her love – WAKE HIM UP!_

_But she didn't. Instead she watched – with nary a tear in her eye, as Bill Weasley walked_ _resolutely over to Harry, watched the tall redhead flick his wand and unbind Harry from the bed. She saw Harry fall to the ground beside Ron, saw him cry out again and again and again._

_Her heart...how is that it could break and threaten to leap out of her all at once...and her stomach, and her limbs and her head...none were attached to her. Ron. Oh, my Ron. It was becoming harder and harder to breathe. The room was closing in on her, it was...no...This can't be happening. Please...it can't...I can't...and I need...and no, no, no._

_Hermione ran from the room. Once outside, she bent over – hands on her knees – and purged herself until there was nothing left to give, and then all went black._

 

The day is quite possibly the best she's had in a long while. Talking with her two friends – one with fiery hair, the other's like a raven – makes her feel better than she thought possible. 

It also makes her feel guilty.

Was it okay to be happy so soon? 

Logically, Hermione knows that eventually, she will get over Ron, she'll move on, love again. Everyone does...even if you lose your love at sixteen, you must keep going. But some very irrational part of her, a part she desperately clings to, never wants to get over him. It is somehow easier to stare out a window and wish.…

It is easier to grieve. Moving on is so hard, and somehow, so cruel. 

Hermione watches Harry and Ginny, sitting across from her. Neither are talking, or even touching, but every so often their eyes meet. It's hard not to be jealous. It seems Hermione has lost a love, and they have both found one, in each other.

She must remind herself, over and over, that both of them love her dearly. After a long day of shopping, of walking in the brisk air, of carrying packages that nobody cares if they receive, the three of them are tired. Sitting next to the fire, not even attempting talk or play a game is becoming tedious. Finally, Hermione suggests they go to bed. 

"Okay." Ginny nods in agreement and Harry does as well. The three stand from their places, stretch, and head up the stairs.

They come to a halt at the door to Ginny's room. Hermione only now notices that Harry has a protective grip on Ginny's hand. The door is pushed open and Hermione leads the way, Ginny trying to follow. 

But the younger girl stops suddenly and turns to face the young boy who has a hold on her.

Hermione watches surreptitiously from beneath her lashes. She sees Ginny look at Harry; she sees Harry's pleading look at the redhead. He leans into her. Hermione strains her ears. 

"Please, Ginny," he says, "I think I'll... I mean...can you come sleep with me again?"

Even in the dim light Hermione can see the glow off Harry's cheeks. Ginny glances over her shoulder at Hermione. Before she can say a word Hermione says, "Go." She smiles, realizing that she means it. Ginny is helping Harry...probably stopping the nightmares. Hermione doesn't have nightmares...doesn't dream. She has no need for Ginny, but Harry does; and Ginny has need of Harry. And both have looks upon their faces that say they have need of Hermione's approval. Which they have always had. 

Ginny turns back to Harry and whispers something quietly before closing the door, leaving him in the hallway, and she changes into a T-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms. She looks at Hermione with burning eyes; they are thrilled and quiet. She looks terrified, but says nothing…just gives the older witch a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. When Ginny opens the door, Hermione can see Harry waiting where she left him, as if he is scared to make the journey to his room alone. Immediately, his hand finds Ginny's again and with a small wave in Hermione's direction he leads the redhead up a flight of stairs. 

After they have left, Hermione changes into her pajamas. She looks at the cot that has been her bed for the past two weeks, and then at Ginny's bed, that will not be slept in. Without a moment to change her mind, Hermione lifts the covers of Ginny's bed and slides in. 

It smells like Ginny. And like Ron.

Smiling, she closes her eyes, praying that tonight will be the night. 


	3. Chapter 3: Ginny

Ginny

They make their way silently up the last flight of stairs, her hand still clutched in his, and as much as Ginny longs to stay in the room with him, she fears that it will only do them harm. Relying on each other to ease their fears will prove more disastrous than good. She knows this.

 

But his eyes are impossible to refuse.

 

Quietly, they enter the room. The posters that adorn the walls are stationary. The players no longer zip around on their brooms; it seems they know that the room's occupant no longer cares. Suspended in time, the posters are frightening in the dark; motionless watchers, shrouded in shadow, that only serve to confuse Ginny. She reaches over to turn on an enchanted light next to Harry's bed. It casts an ethereal glow on most of the room, but only makes the shadows more pronounced. 

 

All day with Harry has been easy; easier than she would have expected. They held hands, he opened doors and carried her parcels, and she felt his eyes on her so often that she knew a simple blush was no longer an accurate way to describe her flushes. They seemed to come from the very inside of her, where she glowed with something secret and wonderful and awful, that made her feel guilt and despair. 

 

Now, though, at night – being alone in his room feels clandestine and vaguely unreal – it is hard. It is hard to look him in the eye; alarming to know he is waiting; impossible to lift the covers and slide into them. For want of something to do with her eyes, Ginny flits her gaze around the small room. There are hints of Ron everywhere, but like the posters on the wall, the hints seem to have become motionless. Not wanting to see her brother anywhere in the room that is no longer his, and not able to look at Harry – who she feels watching her – she moves to the window. 

 

The stars are a reminder as well, of course, but in such a way that they bring a bittersweet smile to her face. Behind her, she can feel more than hear Harry start to move about the room. Ginny tries to ignore him and pushes her palm against the cold window, watching the air trace the outline of her fingers as she presses hard against the glass. When she leans to rest her forehead against the smooth pane, her breath makes patterns. Quite involuntarily, her other hand comes up from her side and she writes in her condensation. It takes a moment for her to realize whose name she has written. With an angry swipe she erases the name and turns to the room, where she is arrested by the sight that greets her. 

 

Harry has taken off his Muggle clothes and is in the process of changing into his night things. He looks up, as if her eyes have called to him – although, perhaps it was the gasp she let escape her lips – and pauses tying his pyjama bottoms. His eyes meet hers and a blush creeps across his body. She can follow the heat of it with her eyes, over his slim stomach and chest, where it creeps higher across his taut neck and finally settles on his cheeks. By the time her eyes have raised again to encounter his, she is quite certain her cheeks match. 

 

Harry offers a feeble smile, which she tries to return, but like the rest of her body, her face is arrested in a permanent _‘O'_. Ginny knows that her eyes are wide and she must look very much like some poor animal caught in wand light, but she cannot make herself move. Eventually, Harry looks back down and finishes tying the strings to his trousers, which allows Ginny a moment to try and compose herself. 

 

When he finishes, he sits on his bed and leans forward, resting his elbows upon his knees and his cheeks in his palms, and he studies her. He makes no pretence of doing anything else, and it is terribly unnerving to be the object of his intense gaze. She longs to look away or to tell him to stop, but she is caught between the cold of the window and the heat of Harry's eyes, and is powerless to make it cease.

 

"You look like Ron." 

 

His voice startles her. All day his voice had been Harry, but with something hearty behind it, as if there were a screen that had been placed in front of him to distract him from the timbre of it, or perhaps to protect him. At this moment, the voice he is using is lower and rumbly and gritty; it's soothing. It is more Harry and less Harry, and it causes her eyes to sting. 

 

His voice undoes the secret hold his eyes have on her, and she moves over to the bed, where she stands in front of him, so close that if she stretched she could touch the dark crown of his head with her fingertips. She is inexplicably afraid to move any closer, and his eyes are still studying her openly, without embarrassment, despite the fact that he has neglected to pull on a T-shirt. 

 

Regardless of her fears, she moves a step closer. His eyes darken slightly behind his glasses and she longs to take the focus out of his gaze. She reaches and, with trembling hands, slides his spectacles down the bridge of his nose, pulling them off and holding them in her hand, which falls back down to her side. He seems to have stopped breathing. That would be a luxury, for her breath has started to come in fast spurts, and she worries that he can hear her heart beating like a drum against her rib cage. They both have paused in the moment and neither seem willing, or able, to break the spell that has been cast over the room.

 

Harry is the first to move. He lunges in an awkward, clumsy lurch, and his hands clasp onto her waist, pulling her into him, so that she stands in between his open legs, her knees hitting the edge of the bed. And suddenly, he is not something to be afraid of; he is scared, as is she, and she finds a strange comfort in the knowledge that he needs her. She can feel his need for her in the tears that have already started to soak through her top; in his shaking shoulders that he does not try to hide; in his trembling hands that attempt to pull her closer to him and cling. It is natural for her own hands to drop his glasses to the ground – where they hit with an imperceptible thud – and for them to move into his hair and that she whisper soothing words. It is natural for him to pull her completely onto the bed, pressing her right up against his bare chest and wrapping his arms totally around her. 

 

Eventually, when his tears subside, he asks her to tell him stories. And because she knows that this is an indulgence he has never had, except perhaps from a mother of whom he has no recollection, she begins a tale of two children, brother and sister, who spent an entire night together, watching the stars. 

 

 

_It was frightfully warm out, so hot and humid with air that blanketed the body in a mist of condensation that Ginny was positively sure she could cut through the evening with a knife. It was quite all right with her, though. Mum had put a cooling charm on the front room, and she and Ron were going to sleep down there, just the two of them, neither having any desire to brave their own muggy rooms, which were high above the ground floor and felt like tiny, little ovens._

 

_Truth be told, Ginny was quite glad for the hot air; if it hadn't been so warm, Ron would have surely wanted to spend this last night home in his room – a room that he had procured only last year – and Ginny would have had to deal with the harsh reality of his leaving by herself._

 

_The whole long year of days with her mother stretched in front of her like an unwelcome road, lonely and dull. But she still had her brother for this one night, and she was going to make the best of it. Both placed blankets and pillows on the floor to cushion their sleeping spots, and Ginny had an enchanted Muggle torch that her father had secretly given her years ago, so that she could read in bed. Ron had just walked into the room with an armful of sweets and an ever-cool jug of pumpkin juice. Everything was going to be perfect, except…._

 

_"Okay, Gin," Ron said as he set down the evening's refreshments, "let's eat up quick. I should really get to bed soon and I wanted to look over my books again." He looked quickly over at her as Ginny felt her face fall. "I've got a big day tomorrow."_

 

_"Go to bed? Read your books?" Ginny said incredulously. "I don't want to go to bed. I thought we would stay up and talk and hang out and…."_

 

_Ron puffed up his chest. "I can't, Gin," he tried to explain. "I need to be ready to face things tomorrow. I've got the Sorting, and Fred said I would have to wrestle a troll - "_

 

_"Oh please," Ginny interrupted. "You didn't believe him, did you? I'm sure he was just making it up. They would never make first years do that." Ginny tired to keep the terror out of her voice. Fred had told her the troll story as well, just last week actually, but Ginny wasn't about to tell Ron that she had had a nightmare about a troll not two days later._

 

_Even in the dim light from her torch, Ginny could see Ron flush slightly behind his freckles. He scowled at her and shoved a whole Pumpkin Pastry into his mouth. "I' doeth't maver," he said around the food, spraying her with bits of orange. "I still have to get my rest, and I need to check up on a few things. I don't want to be the only one who doesn't know stuff." He shook his head dramatically._ "We've already _got Potions assignments and I haven't done them yet!"_

 

_"But-"_

 

_"No, Gin. I'm sorry. I have responsibilities now. You're just too young to understand."_

 

_"Just too – hmph…well, fine! If_ I _had a little brother or sister, I'd_ want _to hang out with them. You're not going to see me until December. That's… " She thought for a moment. "Three months. But…if you don't want to…to…." Ginny trailed off, feeling her eyes sting. She flopped down on her sleeping spot, rolled over onto her side – away from Ron – and scrunched her eyes up in an effort to block her tears._

 

_It didn't fool Ron, though. "Aw, C'mon, Gin," he cajoled. "I'm really nervous about it…and…oh, please don't cry. I'm sorry ‘kay? I shouldn't have said you were too young."_

 

_Ginny didn't answer. She heard Ron moving behind her and a few moments later a large, freckly face was frowning at her. He held a pastry out to her. "Look, I'm really sorry…."_

 

_Ginny was quite mortified that Ron could see her tears. It seemed to prove that she was just a little girl, but she couldn't help it. Sometimes, her emotions just got so big, and they spilled over, and the only way to make it any better was to cry._

 

_Ron was still trying to console her with food, and when he saw that seemed to have no effect on her tears, he switched to a different tactic. "Why don't you help me study?"_

 

_Ginny sniffled. "How am I going to help you study if I'm too young?" she said wetly and closed her eyes, not wanting to see Ron anymore._

 

_Letting out a dramatic sigh, Ron apologized once more for calling her young, then suggested, "We could go outside, and you can help me study for Astronomy. How does that sound?"_

 

_It actually sounded quite wonderful, but Ginny wasn't about to relent so easily. "Are you sure I won't be getting in your way?" she asked, opening her eyes to glare at him through her tears and pursing her lips._

 

_"Positive," Ron said, smiling at her._

 

_Ginny sat up so she was facing Ron and chewed on her lip. Ron's hand came up, and he swiped it along her cheek, drying her tears. He smiled at her and held a biscuit out as a peace offering. Ginny snatched it out of his hand. "Okay," she agreed, "let's go outside."_

 

_The two went about gathering their belongings to move them outside. When she stepped into the night air, her arms heavy with blankets and pillows, it hit her like a physical force._

 

_"Ugh," groaned Ron. "It is too bloody hot out here." He looked over a Ginny's face and quickly said, "But that's fine! The sky is really clear and we can see all of the stars."_

 

_Ginny let the blankets she was carrying fall into the damp grass. Beside her, Ron was setting down the food he had carried. He went back inside to find cups and get his books, while Ginny spread the blankets out. She gave a quick glance up at the sky and caught her breath._

 

_The moon seemed to hang so low in the sky that Ginny was sure if she was just a little taller she would have been able to stretch and graze it with her hand. It cast a bluish light all around her. Ginny lay down on the blankets and rested her head on her hands. She didn't know what any of the constellations were, and the truth was she had never cared. To her, they were just beautiful patterns in the sky, full of light and heat and beauty, keeping their watchful eyes trained on Ginny's family._

 

_A few moments later, Ron came back out, holding a ratty book in his hand. He smiled down at Ginny, who was lying flat on her back, trying to count the stars._

 

_Ron sat down cross-legged on the blanket, next to Ginny, and flipped his book open. He squinted in the moonlight._

 

_"What can I do to help?" Ginny asked, still trying to decipher if a group of stars resembled a Hippogriff or a bumblebee._

 

_"Well," exhaled Ron. "Why don't you just read to me about the stars for a while?" He handed the book to Ginny. "When you get tired let me know, and I'll take over, okay?"_

 

_Ginny nodded. She flicked on her torch and very quietly started to help her older brother study._

 

_~*~_

 

_"So, which one's your favourite?" he asked her sometime into the night. They had been quiet for a while now; both lost in their own thoughts; the book forgotten in favour of letting their eyes wander over the sky._

 

_"I don't think I have one," she answered truthfully. "It doesn't seem fair to pick. They're all so special."_

 

_"Well, I think Orion is my favourite," he said firmly. "He's a fighter, and he has a faithful pet, so he's always got someone with him."_

 

_Ginny inclined her head and studied Ron's profile in the starlight. "You always have people with you, Ron. We've got the biggest family in the world!"_

 

_Ron's eyes crinkled as he looked over at her. "Yeah, I s'pose we do. But it'd be nice to have people who were faithful even though they didn't have to be…y'know?"_

 

" _I guess so." Ginny sat up suddenly. She leaned over Ron. "I don't have to like you, but I still do…and I really…like you." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Not like Percy. I mean, I love Percy, but sometimes I want to push him out a window. I never want to push you out a window…or, at least, not one that's very high." Ginny giggled as Ron sat up and knocked her over, his hands automatically finding her most ticklish spots._

 

_"Take it back," he demanded, a mad glint in his eyes._

 

_"Uh-uh," Ginny said between fits of laughter._

 

_Ron tickled her until she finally conceded, swearing that she would never be inflicted with the mad desire to push him out of a window, again. The two of them settled back onto their backs and continued to study the stars._

 

_~*~_

 

_"How will I know you're thinking of me while you're gone?" she asked speculatively, much later into the night, before giving a wide yawn. Just beyond the horizon, Ginny could see the beginnings of a sunrise. For one of the first times in her life, she willed the dawn to stay away._

_When it rose, it was sure to take the stars from her, and with them, her brother._

 

_Ron was thinking about her question. "Well…pick a star," he said slowly._

 

_"Pick a - ? What does that have to do with anything?"_

 

_"Just pick one!"_

 

_"Okay! Merlin, don't get yourself in a tizzy." Ginny closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She opened them back up, and the first star that she saw, Vega, was what she pointed out to Ron._

_"That one."_

 

_"Alright, then. Whenever you miss me, look at that star, and whenever I miss you, it'll twinkle and you'll know that I'm thinking about you, and I'll know that you're thinking about me."_

 

_"D'you mean it?"_

 

_"Of course I do. Look at it right now."_

 

_Ginny looked. The star was still for a moment, then almost imperceptibly she saw it grow brighter. It seemed to be a living thing, and the longer she stared at it, the more its brightness grew._

 

_"See?" Ron asked. He wore a large grin. "I told you. I was thinking about you, and it smiled at you."_

 

_"Let me try!"_

 

_"'Kay."_

 

_Ginny shut her eyes as tight as they would go and tried to force all of her love for her brother onto the star, to show how much she would miss him._

 

_"Wow, Gin," Ron whispered a moment later. "That was brilliant."_

 

_Ginny opened her eyes to peer at Ron. "Did it smile for you?" she asked._

 

_"Yeah, it did."_

 

_"So, that'll be our star?"_

 

_"Mmm-hmm, that'll be it, and whenever you miss me, you just have to look up at it and you'll know I'm thinking about you."_

 

 

After she finishes her story, she looks over and gives Harry a smile. They are lying on their backs, side-by-side on the small bed, and Harry has her head cradled in his arm. Ginny is surprised to find that the memory still makes her glow. 

 

"That's wonderful," Harry says in a scratchy voice. "I - " His voice cracks slightly. "I'm so glad you and he had stuff like that."

 

"So am I," Ginny whispers. She turns over onto her side, so that she is facing him and Harry does the same, moving his arm from beneath her and using it to prop his head up. Without his glasses, he looks so young. His eyes are smudged with black coal under them and, even though he smiles at her, his cheeks are still wet with tears. Slowly, Ginny brings her hand up. She skims her finger across his cheek, and it comes away wet and sticky. Harry brings his hand up and mimics the gesture on her face, letting his hand linger. 

 

"I miss him so much," Harry admits to her quietly after he moves his hand away from her face. "I feel like a part of me is missing, and it hurts to think about him, but when I'm not thinking about him, I feel guilty." He swallows unsteadily. Ginny watches his Adam's apple as it slides in his throat. He moves his eyes up to the space just above her shoulder. "I even feel guilty when I'm with you." 

 

The admission causes Ginny's breath to catch in her throat as it reddens Harry's cheeks. "Why?" she asks quietly, both thrilled and terrified at the implications of this statement, and despite the fact that perhaps she doesn't want to know the answer, she waits with her heart in her stomach, beating as rapidly as a fairy's wings. 

 

Harry's cheeks turn bright. "Because I have fun with you. I – I laugh and I like being with you, but it…when I look at you, I can see Ron, and you remind me of him." Harry focuses his eyes back on hers; from the light the lamp provides, they appear too dark and too green to be human eyes, rather they are the eyes of an animal that is wounded, and she wants to help, but she fears she will only be hurt in the process. "I worry that I like being with you because you remind me of him. I – I know that's not really true because…." He pauses and flits his eyes away again, focusing once more on a spot beyond her shoulder. Ginny can feel the heat radiating off of his cheeks. He sucks in a shaky breath. "Well, I know it's not true…I mean most of me knows that…but I can't stop worrying that maybe it's a little true, and I don't want you to get hurt…."

 

The tremor in his voice begs Ginny to reassure him that everything will be fine. Even though she doesn't necessarily believe it, she reaches out a hand to cup his cheek and whisper soothing words to him. "It's okay to feel that way, Harry. I've felt guilty today, too. I think it's natural."

 

Harry nods under her hand. He brings his own up and takes hers in it. Slowly, he forces her hand down and places it over his bare chest, with her palm pressed flat, trapped under his warm hand. Somewhere during her story, Ginny had forgotten his chest was unclothed and the feel of his heated skin under her palm causes her cheeks to flare and her lips to fall open. His heart is beating rapidly, almost frantically, and her own heart trips over itself as it quickens to keep time with his.

 

Harry brings his eyes back to hers. "D'you feel that?" he asks. 

 

Ginny swallows and nods, the movement causing her eyesight to darken as she grows dizzy, and the light in the room begins to fluctuate. She is quite certain she will pass out very shortly. Or perhaps break into a million little pieces. 

 

"I didn't think it was there," he continues, "until I woke up this morning and saw you next to me. I thought maybe I had lost it. I wanted to have lost it. It hurt me too much." 

 

Harry presses her hand slightly against his flesh and she can feel the resiliency of his skin as the pressure is exerted. If it's at all possible, his heart moves more rapidly. Slowly, he takes his own hand away and moves it close to her. It hovers for a moment before her face, and then he gently lowers it, until it touches her t-shirt, mirroring her hand upon him. 

 

Ginny's eyes go wide, and she feels a gasp leave her open lips. Her heart feels on fire from his touch, and her mind swirls with colours as an unfamiliar throbbing in her belly makes her breathing become choppy and harsh. No one has ever touched her there; it causes a flame to light in her stomach. Harry presses deliberately against her. "I'm glad my heart is still beating," he tells her in a voice just above a whisper. "And I'm glad it was you who made it beat." 

 

Ginny's voice seems to have flown away. "I - " She desperately wants to tell him he is the cause of her own erratic heartbeat, but the words fail her. She is only capable of a small nod and a sort of breathy sigh that sounds as if it's coming from someone else. It appears enough for Harry, who smiles softly at her before pulling his hand away from her body. She feels branded by his touch, nearly positive that if she looks at her flesh there will be a handprint, warm and red, and that it will never fully leave her. 

 

Ginny removes her own hand, letting it slide down the front of him before it hits the bed. She watches Harry's skin pucker slightly beneath her hand, as his eyes fall shut, and she feels inexplicably powerful. The two lie on their sides, facing one another, and eventually Ginny hears Harry's breathing become regular. She studies him and watches his chest move up and down in a comfortable rhythm. Eventually, sleep claims her as well, and she is pulled down into dreams.

 

 

_The first funeral she had ever gone to was that of her grandfather, Wilfred Weasley. She was six, and only remembers flowers and the fact that she was able to wear a new set of dress robes, navy blue with silk piping._

 

_This time she wore black._

 

_Getting ready for a funeral is an odd thing. You dress up to mourn. It didn't make sense. She didn't want to wear beautiful robes with embroidered flowers and matching gloves. It was ludicrous to her that the Great Hall of Hogwarts was filled with blossoms. And while they were beautiful, Ginny felt it an injustice that they were not black as well._

 

_There have been very few times in her life when she was truly terrified to do something. The Chamber of Secrets was her first encounter with real terror. Getting ready for her brother's funeral brought to mind that sense of total helplessness and loss of control she felt then. The sublime, absolute terror; that is what she felt. And it always led back to same person. Except this time Harry could not save her._

 

_He could not even save himself. Throughout the ceremony, Ginny watched him under her lashes; torn between the desire to comfort him and fear of him rejecting the comfort. In the end, she did nothing. She only watched. It was as it had always been._

 

_Harry looked accepting – enraged and devastated, yes – but it was not hard to read his eyes; he had always felt something truly horrifying would happen. He no longer expected his loved ones to make it through this war. He's already lost too many. Ginny watched his detachment from Hermione, knowing she should do something to prevent it, but powerless to make it stop._

 

_She longed to comfort Hermione, as well, but perhaps it was even more terrifying to find words to say to the brilliant witch who made her brother smile and yell and blush. Hermione's eyes were filled with a kind of hollow despair that made her look far older than sixteen, and her voice had gone scratchy and low. Ginny could not even begin to find emotions enough to feel what Hermione must have gone through. She often wonders what she would do if Harry was somehow gone. She doesn't even have him and the thought alone leaves her cold. Ginny watches Hermione, openly stares at the girl, and can't think of single utterance that would leach some of the pain out of her face._

 

_It was easier this way. To observe others so that she did not have to think about herself. Because if she spent even a second worrying about what her own heart felt, she knew it would break._

_When the funeral was over, friends and family were allowed a few moments alone with the body…the body. Not the boy, not Ron, not her brother. They actually used that term: the body._

 

_Ginny's mum had to be taken out of the ceremony; she had had a breakdown, right in front of everyone. Professor McGonagall led her out of the room, and Ginny had felt a moment of guilt for not following, but her legs were glued to the chair, as if held in place by a sticking charm. After the ceremony, when only a few people remained, her mum was ushered back in, hanging on the arm of her dad, who seemed to have aged a lifetime in just a week._

 

_Ginny felt someone behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see Charlie watching their parents. His eyes were red and the mirth that usually looked out from them was replaced by something hard. But he looked solid. Ginny leaned herself into him, pressing her back against his chest, and was relieved when he moved his arms around her._

 

_"You okay, Little One?" Charlie whispered, resorting to a name he hadn't used for her in nearly seven years._

 

_Ginny found it impossible to nod, so she moved her head slightly against the scratchy material of his dress robes, and Charlie seemed to understand. He tightened his arms around her. They watched as everyone lined up in front of Ron's coffin, and one-by-one, placed items in; items that would be buried with him for eternity. Her dad placed a picture of the family inside and next to it, her mum set down Ron's old baby blanket. Bill placed a Cannon's jersey within and Percy…well, that appeared to be a letter._

 

Probably an apology _, Ginny thought bitterly, although it was hard to remain angry with Percy when his hands shook and his freckles stood black against his pale skin. All of the Weasleys looked like pictures of contrast today, with pale, pale skin and too-bright hair, but Percy seemed the worst, by far._

 

_He stepped away from the coffin with stooped shoulders. As Ginny watched Fred step up to the casket holding a packet of dungbombs – his face more sombre than Ginny had ever remembered seeing it - she gave Charlie's hands a squeeze and moved out from beneath his arms, heading over to where Percy stood alone in a corner._

 

_George was putting something in the casket by the time Ginny reached her brother. Percy brought his eyes up to her, but Ginny doubted that he truly saw. She moved her hands, putting them on the sides of his arms and drew him into a hug. He clung to her for a few moments, his shoulders shaking, and Ginny felt her robes grow damp from his tears._

 

_Over Percy's shoulder, she studied Harry as he stepped up to the coffin. He hesitated for a moment, then lifted unsteady hands and placed his Firebolt in with Ron. Harry stood in front of the casket, looking quite unwilling to move, and he stared with dry eyes down at the prone body of Ron, his shoulders stiff and unyielding. He stayed even when Hermione came up next to him. Ginny watched her slip something in beside Ron; it looked like a book, and Ginny allowed herself a smile. At least some things were consistent._

 

_Charlie stepped up to Ron next and Ginny realized that she would have to move soon if she wanted to bestow her last gift onto Ron, as well. She moved away from Percy and was grateful when she saw Fred step up and put a hand on his arm._

 

_Ginny reached into her formal robes and pulled out a small box, along with her wand. She whispered a spell and enlarged the chess set to its normal size. Sucking in great gulps of air, she walked over and looked down at her brother, her eyes automatically filling with tears, which she had been so good keeping at bay until now._

 

_She stared down at Ron, watching his freckled face blur as tears started to move down her cheeks and fall off her chin, dropping onto his face. At the first splash, Ron's eyes opened. Ginny barely registered this as she placed the chess set into his coffin. At the second splash of tears, Ron captured her wrist, preventing her arm from moving away, and her eyes flew to his, watching his mouth form a smile. All movement in the room had stopped. Ginny tried to look behind her, but she was rendered immobile as Ron started to sit up in his coffin._

 

_A feeling of panic started at Ginny's toes and swiftly traveled through her body. By the time it reached her head, she was light-headed and quite certain she was now alone in the room with her dead brother who was not really her brother…he couldn't be. She knew this was wrong. This wasn't how it happened at all, and she watched with a sickening feeling of dread as Ron tried to speak to her. His hand latched onto her wrist was cold and clammy, and she was positive she would vomit at any moment._

 

_"Ginevra," Ron calmly said to her, in a voice that is not his, "help me."_

 

_His eyes began changing before her, becoming less sky-blue, turning cobalt and stormy. His hair was lengthening, darkening. No, no, no. She tried to pull her arm from his grasp. She yanked and yanked, but he was too strong and he knew it. The corners of his mouth turned up into a feral smile and the eyes belonged to a man, a boy, who was already a monster._

 

_She tried desperately to scream_. Please _, her body cried out, but her mouth couldn't form the words, couldn't do anything but grow dry as she watched the freckles meld into pale skin. She struggled to break free, pulling so hard, and twisting and turning, until with a pop her wrists cracked. Pain stormed through her body, as Riddle, still sitting in the casket, still holding on to her broken wrist, began to chant her name._

 

 

"Ginny," he says over and over until it sounds like a mantra. "Ginny! You have to wake up." 

He is still holding her wrist, and he has her pinned down. It doesn't matter how hard she fights, she can't get away. " _Please_ ," she cries out, "please, no!" 

 

"Ginny, wake up!"

 

Her eyes snap open, and the first thing she registers is a shock of dark hair, dark eyes and pale, smooth skin. She screams. 

 

"Ginny!" Harry cries, cutting off her scream.

 

The room is still bathed in the fairytale light of the lamp, and it takes only a moment for Ginny to realize that Harry is holding onto her, his face looming above her own, his green eyes dark with worry, and Riddle is nowhere in the room. 

 

"Oh, Harry!" And she feels that tears have already begun to flow freely. They slide out of the corners of her eyes and drip down her temples, falling into her hair that is spread beneath her. Ginny shuts her eyes tightly and lets shuddering sobs overtake her. "It was him. It was Ron, only he was Riddle…he was dead, and he turned into Riddle, and he wouldn't let me go. He was asking me to help him, and I knew he was going to kill me and there was nothing I could do…." Then she is lost, too trapped in grief to make out the words Harry is saying, although his voice is soothing. 

 

Dimly, she is aware of Harry manipulating her body so that she lays spooned in front of him, facing the window and the darkness outside. She feels his hand move repeatedly in her hair, the action sending shivers throughout her body. Harry inches closer, as though in answer to her trembling, and her body burns in every place he touches her. The sound of her harsh breathing slowly quiets, and she can begin to make out the words he is saying. Promises of protection and loyalty leave his lips, and Ginny allows herself to relax completely into him. 

 

She feels Harry reach behind her, the bed shifting slightly, and then the room is immersed in darkness. "Are you alright?" he whispers, sounding drowsy.

 

Ginny nods her head. She peers out the window in front of her and locates a star. She imagines it twinkles in the darkness, smiling down on her. Harry's hand becomes heavy in her hair, his breathing regular once more. "I'm fine," she whispers back, although she knows he can longer hear her. "I'll be fine."

 

 


	4. Chapter 4: Molly

 

It's not yet five and already the space next to her is empty. It doesn't come as a shock to her mind, but her soul feels the loss desperately. Molly rolls over and presses her body against Arthur's side of the bed, letting the warmth still lingering in his absence wash over her. She can dimly make out the sound of the shower, and at the foot of the bed she sees a gift, wrapped in red foil and tied with a pretty white ribbon, waiting to be opened. She stares at it, love for her husband and grief for her son warring within her, causing her to weep. 

 

Just once, she'd like to wake after the sun has already risen, and she'd like the need to cry to vanish. She feels immediately guilty and deep within her, she knows these wishes may never be granted, but waking up every morning with tears thick inside her throat and wetness stinging her eyes is exhausting.

 

Molly ignores the package at the end of the bed. Despite the desire to stay here all day, she stretches and reaches for her dressing gown. She swallows back the remaining tears and moves forward. Her body aches. She feels so much older than she has in recent years and yet, sometimes she still feels a lost little girl. 

 

Molly makes her way into the kitchen. With a flick of her wrist, she causes the enchanted lights to blaze. The sun is still resting beyond the horizon, waiting to rise. Molly looks outside into the still, star-filled night. She watches the snow dance in the breeze before coming to rest on the ground; it twinkles in the moonlight. Molly cannot see them, but she knows there are at least half a dozen Aurors guarding the house and dozens of near-impenetrable wards surrounding the Burrow; all hastily constructed, but still very strong. They were vital for allowing the Weasleys back into their home for the Christmas holiday. Secretly, Molly thinks she would have come regardless. When Albus had begun making arrangements to go back to Grimmauld Place after Ron's death, it took all of Molly's willpower not to lose her temper at her former headmaster. It took the combined efforts of her, Arthur and Remus to convince Dumbledore that the Burrow was the only place the children (and indeed the rest of the Weasleys) could heal. 

 

Children…. Molly shakes her head slightly. They are not children any more. They are all standing on the threshold of adulthood, balancing precariously, and soon they will have crossed the line. There will be no going back. Hermione has already crossed it. Molly can see it in her eyes – the beautiful brown eyes that made her son go red in the face…sometimes from anger…but mostly because he didn't know how to act in front of the intelligent witch.

 

Molly gives another flick of her wrist. She watches a flame ignite under her cracked, blue teapot. As she busies herself bringing down cups and pulling out milk and sugar, Molly allows herself a small sigh of relief. Albus, after acquiescing to their wishes to stay at the Burrow, was going to send Hermione back to her parents. Molly had to insist against it. She had met the Grangers a few times, and they seemed like lovely people, but Molly knew in her heart that Hermione needed to be with Harry. Neither would make it without the other. Ginny needed the older girl as well, and Hermione had seemed quietly grateful to be allowed to stay in the magical world for the three weeks of holiday. She would see her parents today, anyway. 

 

Soon, in just a few hours, the Burrow will be filled with people trying to celebrate Christmas. The Grangers will portkey in for a short time. Cautiousness is still required though, even on holidays, and Hermione's parents would be wearing portkeys. Should an attack occur, they could activate the devices immediately, and would be forced to leave Hermione with the Weasleys. Molly furrows her brow slightly, anxiety snaking around her heart. She hopes the portkeys will not be necessary today.

 

Looking back out the window, she can see the very beginnings of the dawn. She aims her wand at herself and whispers a quick warming charm before taking a plate piled with scones, along with the teapot, outside. Placing both on the bench in the hibernating garden, she glances apprehensively around. Invisible though the protectors of her house are, they still become hungry and thirsty. Molly hopes her morning offering is sustenance enough to keep them content. She hurries back inside – even with the warming charm, the wind is frigid through her dressing gown. 

 

Once inside, she starts up the stairs, careful to skip the third step up, which she had charmed to creak when the twins turned eight and took to leaving the house at all hours of the night. She smiles a little wistfully at the thought; momentarily wishing she could go back in time. She would have appreciated the simplistic pleasure of reprimanding her children again, if it meant she could have them all back. 

 

Molly shakes her head at the notion. Dwelling on thoughts such as that is neither wise nor healthy. No good can come of wishing for things that will never be. The door to the twins' room is closed. Molly rests her ear against the wood. Beyond it she can make out the faint snores of George. Fred, who never snored as a child, complained loudly and daily of George's nighttime breathing, but Molly knew parting the two would have been impossible. 

 

Satisfied, she climbs the next flight of stairs to Ginny's room. Unlike the boys' room, Molly can make out no sounds on the other side of the door. It's an almost desperate need she has now, to make sure her children are all safe in bed, which causes her every morning to listen in doorways and peek in rooms. She turns the cold brass knob and sticks her head just inside, expecting to see her daughter resting in one bed and Hermione in the other. It's not quite as much of a shock as it should be when she sees Hermione has abandoned her cot in favour of Ginny's bed. Nor is it too surprising to see that Ginny is absent from the room. Something should have registered in her mind yesterday morning, seeing Ginny and Harry already sitting at the kitchen table waiting for breakfast, both blushing and trying not to look at one another over their tea.

 

Molly allows herself a sad smile. Her heart flutters slightly in her belly. Ginny and Harry; it made so much sense and felt so right that it was almost absurd. But, oh, how she wishes it could wait. That they could enjoy more of their childhood before starting a relationship that was sure to take them faster to adulthood. How she wishes that Ron's death were not a catalyst for something so touching as a first love. 

 

So, no, it isn't too surprising to see Ginny gone. What is surprising, however, is the smile that graces Hermione's sleeping face. Molly steps further into the room. It has been nearly two weeks since the teenagers have all come home from Hogwarts, and in that time Molly has never once seen a smile that reached Hermione's eyes. She is almost sure that were Hermione's eyes open now, a sparkle would be detected in their brown depths. Hermione gives a sleepy sort of sigh and rolls over, still smiling slightly. Molly feels joy creep into her own sad smile. She hopes that whatever Hermione is dreaming about is enough to sustain her smile when she is awake as well. 

 

Molly quietly leaves the room and pulls the door shut. She turns to head up another flight of stairs and comes to a halt at the door on the landing. If Molly squints, it's almost as if she can make out the outline of a now-absent sign proclaiming this room to be _Ronald's Room_. She took the faded, red sign down before Harry came to stay in the room, after much internal debate. In the end she decided the sign was full of far too many memories that would cause the room's new occupant unnecessary guilt. It rests now at the bottom of one of her drawers. She likes to imagine that one day she'll be able to put the sign back up, and she'll smile at her memories of her youngest little boy:

 

 

_"Congratulations," the midwife said, looking down at Molly, who held a little boy wrapped tightly in a soft, blue blanket. Molly smiled quietly, her eyes bright with barely-contained tears. Holding her newborn child never lost its magic. It was just as breathtaking the sixth time with Ron as it had been the first time, with Bill._

 

_"Well," said Arthur with a small chuckle, "it looks like ‘Ginevra' is out of the question again, doesn't it?"_

 

_"Oh, dear, I'm afraid so." Molly stared down at her little baby boy, a mop of red hair shocking against his pale skin, and she lovingly counted his ten perfect fingers and ten darling toes._

 

_"So, it'll be ‘Ronald' then, will it?" Arthur asked, bringing his face close to the little thing and making a goofy face._

 

_Three weeks prior she and Arthur had chosen the name Ronald, just in case. While they were quite hopeful they would have a daughter this time, both felt it highly probable that they would have another boy. Not surprisingly, Arthur was already quite taken with the little darling, who was staring up with unfocused, sleep-heavy, blue eyes – looking very content having just been fed._

 

_The name Ronald came the quickest for both Arthur and Molly, and it required no deliberating. Somehow, both knew they had chosen right – even before they saw the freckled angel. ‘Rules with Council.' That was what the book had said. It had fit, somehow. Whether this child had been a girl or a boy, both Molly and Arthur had felt it was going to be very special; somehow important._

 

_Of course, all of their children were important – Bill was terribly intelligent, although he had a penchant for getting into trouble with his little brother Charlie, who was the most athletic child Molly had ever seen. Then there was little Percy – only four and already the most serious of the lot, with his books and his over-large vocabulary. The twins were at that age where she was chasing them around the house like little golden Snitches – sometimes they were just as elusive – and with two of them and their predilection for mess-making, they were a chore. But all of her children were delightful. All seemed destined for something great. This one, though, while resting in her belly, waiting to show itself to the world, had felt destined for something spectacular. Looking down at his cooing form now, the feeling was only intensified; a burning in her heart, that made it glow and caused a smile to light up her face, even as the tears leaked out of her eyes._

 

_She gazed down at her newly born son wishing against all else that the war consuming the wizarding world would soon end, so her darling could experience childhood as it was meant to be: full of laughter and sunshine. Molly sent a little prayer up to Heaven, praying that the newest addition to her family received all the happiness he deserved, and she smiled at her husband – still staring in awe at his new baby boy. Yes, this child was meant to do something great. It was destiny._

 

 

Still staring at the door, Molly thinks that indeed her darling son had done something great. He had saved the wizarding world's hope for survival. Given his life so that the rest could continue to fight for what is good. Molly allows herself a small smile, thinking on just how right she and Arthur had been. She twists the knob and slips inside Harry's room. 

 

The walls are still lined with Quidditch paraphernalia, the same vibrant orange wallpaper of Chudley Cannons posters that has always greeted visitors to the room. Although, the colour seems muted and the players have lost their zip; the brooms no longer jump quickly from poster to poster. When her children were younger, Molly complained weekly of their obsession with the game. Arthur used to sit by with quiet amusement as she fretted over unsafe brooms and break-neck speeds. Even now, she can remember the sheer terror of watching her children play an impromptu game of Quidditch, ignoring her protests that it was dangerous. What an innocent time that had been, when her biggest worry was her child falling a few feet from a broomstick…

 

 

_Molly was standing at the sink, cleaning up the remnants of the lunch her large family had just eaten, supervising the dishes as they washed themselves in soapy water. All of her vibrant-haired children were gathered outside – a mismatched game of Weasley Quidditch was set to be played._

 

_Bill, newly twelve, was home for the summer after his first year at Hogwarts. He had come home with tales of wonder and enchantment that left the rest of Molly's children bright-eyed with anticipation of their days at the school. And every day now, the boys insisted on practicing Quidditch, so that when they went off to Hogwarts, they would be ready for the house team._

 

_Usually, when only Bill and Charlie practiced Quidditch, Molly allowed them the freedom to use the field behind the Burrow, but when all of them were present they had to stay in the gnome-filled, over-grown yard, so that she was able to keep on eye on the younger boys._

 

_Molly glanced out of the window to see Bill patiently explaining to Ron (a boisterous five year old) how to keep his balance on the broom. For Christmas, Molly and Arthur had bought the family a group of six second-hand brooms. They were all the boys could talk about, even Percy._

 

_Now, Percy perched precariously on his Cleansweep – his hands white-knuckled on the handle, his indoor-pale face scrunched up in concentration – a few feet off the ground as Fred and George flew circles around him. Molly stuck her head out the window, prepared to yell, when Charlie intercepted and distracted the twins with an enchanted apple. The two flew off, laughing noisily, and Percy was left looking calmer._

 

_He lowered the broom down to little Ginny – who was rocking back and forth on her heels, her hair (that Molly had smoothed and put up only an hour ago) already in total disarray. Molly watched as Percy bent his head down to Ginny._

 

_"Can you take me up, please, Percy?"_

 

_Percy looked alarmed at the very thought. He shook his head firmly. "No, Gin." His voice carried easily across the yard. "Mum said you could watch, but you're not to be in the air. Go sit over there, where Polly Anne is. She looks lonely."_

 

_Molly could see Ginny's hands clench tightly. "Polly Anne is a_ doll _," she said in a superior tone. "She's not lonely." But Ginny turned and stomped over to the picnic table, anyway – kicking a stone in her path – and sat down in a huff of red hair, glaring stonily at her brothers flying around the yard._

 

_Satisfied that Percy would be able to keep control, Molly turned away from the window to float her dishes safely to her cupboard. Only a moment later, however, she rushed back to the window, summoned by Ginny's screech of, "Ron!" She arrived just in time to see her youngest boy hit the ground roughly in a tangle of limbs._

 

_"What is going on?" she cried out the window before flicking her wrist. Moments later, she had Apparated to Ron's side._

 

_"I'm sorry, Mum," said Bill, looking very pale beneath his freckles. "I thought he had it."_

 

_Molly bent down to Ron – who looked on the verge of tears, his freckled face scrunched up in pain – and could immediately see that his left arm was broken; it was lying in an awkward position beneath him._

 

_"Come on, darling," she said soothingly, scooping him into her arms and bringing him into the house. "Bill," she called over her shoulder, "no more playing until your father arrives home from work."_

 

_"Aw, Mum," complained George._

 

_"Just because Ron's hurt?" continued Fred._

 

_"No more!" said Molly firmly. "And Ginny, sweetheart, don't cry. He'll be fine."_

 

_Molly stepped into the house and moved to lower Ron onto a sofa. Once away from the eyes of his brothers, Ron began to howl earnestly. Molly could only make out a few words, the most prominent being, "hurt," "arm," and "bugger." Not two minuets later, while Molly was looking up the charm for setting an arm (Surprisingly, even with the twins rambunctious nature, she had never needed to memorize the charm), Ginny timidly entered the room. She went straight to Ron – who was still crying big, salty tears – wrapped her spindly arms around his neck and pressed her face against his._

 

_Molly, after having located the spell, looked up to see Ron sweeping a hand across his cheek._

 

_"Are you alright?" Ginny whispered anxiously._

 

_"Yeah," he sniffed, "but my arm hurts."_

 

_"You fell really far," she told him. "I was scared for you."_

 

_Ron sniffed one last time. "Well, I'm okay. It wasn't that far actually."_

 

_"Yes, it was," said Ginny. "You must be very brave."_

 

_Ron smiled at his sister, puffing out his chest a little. "You think so?"_

 

_Ginny nodded solemnly, then climbed onto the sofa, stretching her legs out in front of her._

 

_"Alright," said Molly, walking over to them. Outside, she saw five freckled faces peering into house, all looking quite worried. She gave them all a reassuring sort of smile and aimed her wand at Ron's arm. Beside him, Ginny took his right hand in her own and gave a squeeze. When he was all patched up (except for a few bumps and bruises that would need a potion to heal properly), Molly gave him a few chocolate biscuits and some pumpkin juice. She shook her head amusedly as only an hour later Ron was begging to be allowed to ride a broom once more._

 

 

Molly shakes her head to clear her mind and glances around Harry's room once more. She sees her daughter and Harry lying on the bed.

 

They are both facing away from the door, toward the window. Molly can tell by the position of Harry's arm that it is resting over Ginny's body and that Ginny is curled up completely into Harry. Their breathing is matched. She can see the rise and fall of Harry's back as he takes in contented, sleep-heavy breaths.

 

She makes a mental note to have a talk with Ginny about this today, a talk she should have had a while ago; yet, she also knows she will not forbid this. There have been a dozen mornings in the short two weeks the children have been home that she has come to find Harry's face wet with tears, although he is sleeping. To see him relaxed is something she can't bear to end. 

 

As she watches the two of them, Harry's back tightens up, and his breathing grows irregular. Molly very quietly tries to back out the room. She gets as far as the door when she sees Harry reach one arm high above his head, his neck rolling slightly as he stretches it. 

 

Slowly and gently, Harry extracts his arm from underneath Ginny. As Molly looks on, Harry braces his head upon his bent arm and stares down at the sleeping girl beside him. Molly imagines she knows the look upon his face. She has seen it on all of her children at one time or another – the look of wonder that they have found someone who erases their fears and bolsters their hope. It's a look that adolescents often have, when first finding love. She allows herself a smile when she thinks back on Ron and Hermione, and the first time she saw her son give that look to his soon-to-be girlfriend.

 

 

_Grimmauld place was over-shadowed by grief. The children all looked quite ready to cry at the drop of a pin, and the adults were much too involved in fighting a war – and protecting the rest of the Order – to attempt to help them grieve. Tonight, though, was Molly's turn to stay at headquarters, and she had insisted after dinner that the four students, who would be returning to Hogwarts in a few, short days, stay downstairs and play a game of chess or Exploding Snap – anything that would keep them in her presence for a little while longer – and would prevent Harry from holing up alone in the room he shared with Ron._

 

_Ron had coaxed Harry into playing a game of chess, while Ginny and Hermione both watched. A quarter of the way through the game, though, Harry began consulting with Ginny about what moves to make, and Ron, complaining about the unfairness of Harry using a Weasley to win the game, began conversing secretly with Hermione every time he made a move. Molly watched him listen attentively as Hermione made small gestures with her hands and spoke with a serious look upon her face. Molly smiled slightly, knowing that even with Ginny's help, Harry was going to lose against Ron (Ginny was never very good at chess), and Molly knew that Ron knew this as well. She watched surreptitiously beneath her lashes, her hands automatically knitting, as a focused, curious light came into Ron's eyes every time he looked at Hermione._

 

_A blind person would have very little trouble distinguishing the feelings that radiated off Ron; he was confused and scared, but accepting and filled with anticipation as well. He was sixteen and falling in love with his best friend. Watching gave Molly a feeling of contentment. She laughed slightly as Ron made a move on the board, apparently ignoring Hermione's advice, and the young witch sat back with a huff, telling him not to ask her if he wasn't going to take her advice. Molly watched Ron roll his eyes and tell her that her instructions weren't the right instructions._

 

_"You're the smartest witch I know," Ron said. "But you're not that good at chess, Hermione."_

 

Both Ginny and Harry looked on with bright eyes, appearing hard-pressed to keep their laughter in. Hermione, for her part, didn't appear to know whether to blush or yell. She huffed once more, but smiled just the same, her cheeks taking on a lovely glow. After Harry and Ginny had made another move (one that had both Ron and Hermione grinning like Cheshire cats), the two moved their heads close together again and started conversing in low voices. Molly looked on as every once in awhile their hands would brush together, and they would jump apart as if burnt by fire. It wouldn't be long, Molly knew, before they would no longer need or want to jump away from one another.

 

 

Ginny begins to stir from her sleep. As quietly as she can, Molly backs out of the room, reaching to shut the door as she hears Harry's low voice greet her daughter. By the time Ginny mumbles something back, the door is shut completely. Molly turns and makes her way back down the stairs. She pauses outside the twins' room again, although this time she is facing an open door to her right. Inside is a small desk that was forever littered with papers and awards when the house was full of children. 

 

The room is quite empty now. The boys who had once resided it in are all much too old to live at home; they have jobs and are ready to soon start families of their own. Even Percy, who only just came home for the first time in a year a few weeks ago, is engaged. Molly quickly breathes in a deep breath of relief. She doesn't think she could bear not being with her most serious son when he took the next step into adulthood. Her eyes narrow slightly and she feels a fresh sting of wetness. Percy had never fully managed to reconcile with Ron – he never managed a reconciliation with any of the family until recently, and only then because of tragedy. 

 

Molly presses her lips together and squeezes her eyes shut, screwing up her face against the memory of Percy's shaking hands and trembling lips.

 

_There didn't seem to be anything to say. They sat there, her family, staring at one another, too shocked to hug or cry. Molly felt adrift at sea, an emptiness in her belly unlike anything she'd ever experienced, a ringing in her mind that clouded all judgment. She should be making tea, or comforting her children. She should be making decisions about the funeral and their future. All she could do, however, was sit on the sofa, a few inches from the warmth of Arthur and curl up into herself. Looking at the faces of her children only seemed to remind her of the one who she had lost. Reaching for comfort in them only seemed to remind her of the one who she would never again comfort._

 

_A knock on the back door announced his arrival, and Arthur, after placing a reassuring hand on Molly's shoulder, went off to let Percy in, leaving Molly with the twins and Bill. Charlie was staying at Hogwarts with Ginny for a few days, as she insisted she didn't want to leave school, and Molly felt she, Harry and Hermione needed to have family with them._

 

_Through the door that lead into the kitchen, Molly watched Percy as he followed Arthur into the front room, his head hung low, his hands clutching desperately at one another, his shoulders slouched low as if under a great burden. Despite not being able to see his face, Molly could guarantee tears falling gently among his freckles; his whole body shook with the effort of holding back sobs._

 

_When he entered the room, Percy raised tired, brown eyes, red-rimmed and minus their glasses. He paused just inside the door, while Arthur moved to his spot on the sofa next to Molly. Molly watched, wanting to jump up and put her arms around him, but somehow unable to give him the comfort he obviously needed._

 

_She saw him swallow unsteadily. "Mum," he said in an anguished voice, pleading._

 

_Before Molly could move, however, George stood up and crossed the distance to Percy in three long strides. Molly considered calling to him to leave his brother alone. She considered moving to intercept George. But she only watched, as if fascinated by some horror scene, the hollowness in her belly moving to the rest of her, so that she felt numb to protect any more of her children. She watched Percy's eyes widen and saw George pull back his arm._

 

_Instead of the hit she had been expecting, George wound his arms around Percy and pulled him into a tight hug._

 

_Percy seemed stunned for a moment, his arms still caught between the two of them. But, slowly, he too embraced his brother. Within moments, the family that had been sitting oddly detached from one another were huddled together, grieving for the loss of their own, spurred on by the return of another, brought together by the one who had been alone._

 

 

It's no matter now. All of the family would be here today, along with many members of the Order, and they would smile and laugh and eat as if one of the precious few hadn't been ripped from them. She would be forced to put on a brave face, trying very hard not to imagine what the rest of her life would be like without Ron, knowing full well that tears were hovering just beneath the surface of many of the happy faces that would be in her house. 

 

Molly turns away from the empty, dark room and forces herself to move toward her kitchen. She has only a few short hours to prepare the Christmas meal. When she enters the room, she sees Arthur sitting at the table, a special edition of _The_ _Daily Prophet_ resting next to a mug of tea. His eyes are down cast, studying the paper. 

 

Upon her arrival he lifts his tired gaze to her. "Morning, love," he says quietly, a small smile not quite reaching his lovely blue eyes. 

 

"Good morning, dear," she replies back as he stands from his seat and starts toward her. "I thought you were going to try and have a lie-in on your day off?"

 

"Couldn't sleep."

 

Molly nods. Her husband stops in front of her, taking both of her hands in his. "Are you doing all right this morning?" he asks quietly, concern colouring his eyes. 

 

Molly swallows and gives another nod. "I'm fine, dear," she tells him, although she knows he doesn't believe her. 

His hands move around her and pull her close. She can feel the soothing rhythm of his breathing as she burrows into his warmth. "Are any of the children up, yet?" 

 

"Harry and Ginny are," Molly answers automatically, even as she cringes inwardly, realizing she is implicating the two teenagers. 

 

Arthur tenses slightly, pulling back from her to stare at her face, which she is trying unsuccessfully to arrange into an innocent demeanor. He gives a slight nod, and a ghost of a smile forms upon his face. "Of course they are," he says quietly. 

 

Molly smiles back at him. She knows no one but he would have the understanding to accept the situation with his daughter and Harry, who he loves as a son. She feels a swell of emotion toward him that is surprising; it's only love, tinged with no grief, for the first time in almost a month. 

 

She stares in slight wonder at him as he asks what he can do to help with the meal today. Understanding forms somewhere in the pit of her stomach, as she points her wand at the old ice-box in the corner of the room, giving him instructions for the roast she plans to prepare. She would miss her youngest son until she was able to join him. She would quite possible grieve for the rest of her life, as would her family. But the grief would not stay as sharp as it is today. They would all survive and learn to live again, and they would help one another do that. Their love for each other would sustain them. 

 

Molly walks over to the stove, her heart light, and she begins whipping eggs in a bowl. From upstairs she can hear the sounds of her family coming to life; in a few hours they would be joined by all of their loved ones. She briefly closes her eyes, sending all of her love to her youngest baby boy, knowing deep within her that he is smiling, wherever he is.

 

 

_A/N: This chapter was definitely the hardest for me to write, and the one (the only one) that, in the end, made me cry. As usual, I am much obliged to Susan, Annika and Allie, who have all been very supportive of me and this story. Thank you, Ladies, so, so much. Thank you also to Buckbeaky, my Checkmated beta._

Chapter 4: Molly

 

 

It's not yet five and already the space next to her is empty. It doesn't come as a shock to her mind, but her soul feels the loss desperately. Molly rolls over and presses her body against Arthur's side of the bed, letting the warmth still lingering in his absence wash over her. She can dimly make out the sound of the shower, and at the foot of the bed she sees a gift, wrapped in red foil and tied with a pretty white ribbon, waiting to be opened. She stares at it, love for her husband and grief for her son warring within her, causing her to weep. 

 

Just once, she'd like to wake after the sun has already risen, and she'd like the need to cry to vanish. She feels immediately guilty and deep within her, she knows these wishes may never be granted, but waking up every morning with tears thick inside her throat and wetness stinging her eyes is exhausting.

 

Molly ignores the package at the end of the bed. Despite the desire to stay here all day, she stretches and reaches for her dressing gown. She swallows back the remaining tears and moves forward. Her body aches. She feels so much older than she has in recent years and yet, sometimes she still feels a lost little girl. 

 

Molly makes her way into the kitchen. With a flick of her wrist, she causes the enchanted lights to blaze. The sun is still resting beyond the horizon, waiting to rise. Molly looks outside into the still, star-filled night. She watches the snow dance in the breeze before coming to rest on the ground; it twinkles in the moonlight. Molly cannot see them, but she knows there are at least half a dozen Aurors guarding the house and dozens of near-impenetrable wards surrounding the Burrow; all hastily constructed, but still very strong. They were vital for allowing the Weasleys back into their home for the Christmas holiday. Secretly, Molly thinks she would have come regardless. When Albus had begun making arrangements to go back to Grimmauld Place after Ron's death, it took all of Molly's willpower not to lose her temper at her former headmaster. It took the combined efforts of her, Arthur and Remus to convince Dumbledore that the Burrow was the only place the children (and indeed the rest of the Weasleys) could heal. 

 

Children…. Molly shakes her head slightly. They are not children any more. They are all standing on the threshold of adulthood, balancing precariously, and soon they will have crossed the line. There will be no going back. Hermione has already crossed it. Molly can see it in her eyes – the beautiful brown eyes that made her son go red in the face…sometimes from anger…but mostly because he didn't know how to act in front of the intelligent witch.

 

Molly gives another flick of her wrist. She watches a flame ignite under her cracked, blue teapot. As she busies herself bringing down cups and pulling out milk and sugar, Molly allows herself a small sigh of relief. Albus, after acquiescing to their wishes to stay at the Burrow, was going to send Hermione back to her parents. Molly had to insist against it. She had met the Grangers a few times, and they seemed like lovely people, but Molly knew in her heart that Hermione needed to be with Harry. Neither would make it without the other. Ginny needed the older girl as well, and Hermione had seemed quietly grateful to be allowed to stay in the magical world for the three weeks of holiday. She would see her parents today, anyway. 

 

Soon, in just a few hours, the Burrow will be filled with people trying to celebrate Christmas. The Grangers will portkey in for a short time. Cautiousness is still required though, even on holidays, and Hermione's parents would be wearing portkeys. Should an attack occur, they could activate the devices immediately, and would be forced to leave Hermione with the Weasleys. Molly furrows her brow slightly, anxiety snaking around her heart. She hopes the portkeys will not be necessary today.

 

Looking back out the window, she can see the very beginnings of the dawn. She aims her wand at herself and whispers a quick warming charm before taking a plate piled with scones, along with the teapot, outside. Placing both on the bench in the hibernating garden, she glances apprehensively around. Invisible though the protectors of her house are, they still become hungry and thirsty. Molly hopes her morning offering is sustenance enough to keep them content. She hurries back inside – even with the warming charm, the wind is frigid through her dressing gown. 

 

Once inside, she starts up the stairs, careful to skip the third step up, which she had charmed to creak when the twins turned eight and took to leaving the house at all hours of the night. She smiles a little wistfully at the thought; momentarily wishing she could go back in time. She would have appreciated the simplistic pleasure of reprimanding her children again, if it meant she could have them all back. 

 

Molly shakes her head at the notion. Dwelling on thoughts such as that is neither wise nor healthy. No good can come of wishing for things that will never be. The door to the twins' room is closed. Molly rests her ear against the wood. Beyond it she can make out the faint snores of George. Fred, who never snored as a child, complained loudly and daily of George's nighttime breathing, but Molly knew parting the two would have been impossible. 

 

Satisfied, she climbs the next flight of stairs to Ginny's room. Unlike the boys' room, Molly can make out no sounds on the other side of the door. It's an almost desperate need she has now, to make sure her children are all safe in bed, which causes her every morning to listen in doorways and peek in rooms. She turns the cold brass knob and sticks her head just inside, expecting to see her daughter resting in one bed and Hermione in the other. It's not quite as much of a shock as it should be when she sees Hermione has abandoned her cot in favour of Ginny's bed. Nor is it too surprising to see that Ginny is absent from the room. Something should have registered in her mind yesterday morning, seeing Ginny and Harry already sitting at the kitchen table waiting for breakfast, both blushing and trying not to look at one another over their tea.

 

Molly allows herself a sad smile. Her heart flutters slightly in her belly. Ginny and Harry; it made so much sense and felt so right that it was almost absurd. But, oh, how she wishes it could wait. That they could enjoy more of their childhood before starting a relationship that was sure to take them faster to adulthood. How she wishes that Ron's death were not a catalyst for something so touching as a first love. 

 

So, no, it isn't too surprising to see Ginny gone. What is surprising, however, is the smile that graces Hermione's sleeping face. Molly steps further into the room. It has been nearly two weeks since the teenagers have all come home from Hogwarts, and in that time Molly has never once seen a smile that reached Hermione's eyes. She is almost sure that were Hermione's eyes open now, a sparkle would be detected in their brown depths. Hermione gives a sleepy sort of sigh and rolls over, still smiling slightly. Molly feels joy creep into her own sad smile. She hopes that whatever Hermione is dreaming about is enough to sustain her smile when she is awake as well. 

 

Molly quietly leaves the room and pulls the door shut. She turns to head up another flight of stairs and comes to a halt at the door on the landing. If Molly squints, it's almost as if she can make out the outline of a now-absent sign proclaiming this room to be _Ronald's Room_. She took the faded, red sign down before Harry came to stay in the room, after much internal debate. In the end she decided the sign was full of far too many memories that would cause the room's new occupant unnecessary guilt. It rests now at the bottom of one of her drawers. She likes to imagine that one day she'll be able to put the sign back up, and she'll smile at her memories of her youngest little boy:

 

 

_"Congratulations," the midwife said, looking down at Molly, who held a little boy wrapped tightly in a soft, blue blanket. Molly smiled quietly, her eyes bright with barely-contained tears. Holding her newborn child never lost its magic. It was just as breathtaking the sixth time with Ron as it had been the first time, with Bill._

 

_"Well," said Arthur with a small chuckle, "it looks like ‘Ginevra' is out of the question again, doesn't it?"_

 

_"Oh, dear, I'm afraid so." Molly stared down at her little baby boy, a mop of red hair shocking against his pale skin, and she lovingly counted his ten perfect fingers and ten darling toes._

 

_"So, it'll be ‘Ronald' then, will it?" Arthur asked, bringing his face close to the little thing and making a goofy face._

 

_Three weeks prior she and Arthur had chosen the name Ronald, just in case. While they were quite hopeful they would have a daughter this time, both felt it highly probable that they would have another boy. Not surprisingly, Arthur was already quite taken with the little darling, who was staring up with unfocused, sleep-heavy, blue eyes – looking very content having just been fed._

 

_The name Ronald came the quickest for both Arthur and Molly, and it required no deliberating. Somehow, both knew they had chosen right – even before they saw the freckled angel. ‘Rules with Council.' That was what the book had said. It had fit, somehow. Whether this child had been a girl or a boy, both Molly and Arthur had felt it was going to be very special; somehow important._

 

_Of course, all of their children were important – Bill was terribly intelligent, although he had a penchant for getting into trouble with his little brother Charlie, who was the most athletic child Molly had ever seen. Then there was little Percy – only four and already the most serious of the lot, with his books and his over-large vocabulary. The twins were at that age where she was chasing them around the house like little golden Snitches – sometimes they were just as elusive – and with two of them and their predilection for mess-making, they were a chore. But all of her children were delightful. All seemed destined for something great. This one, though, while resting in her belly, waiting to show itself to the world, had felt destined for something spectacular. Looking down at his cooing form now, the feeling was only intensified; a burning in her heart, that made it glow and caused a smile to light up her face, even as the tears leaked out of her eyes._

 

_She gazed down at her newly born son wishing against all else that the war consuming the wizarding world would soon end, so her darling could experience childhood as it was meant to be: full of laughter and sunshine. Molly sent a little prayer up to Heaven, praying that the newest addition to her family received all the happiness he deserved, and she smiled at her husband – still staring in awe at his new baby boy. Yes, this child was meant to do something great. It was destiny._

 

 

Still staring at the door, Molly thinks that indeed her darling son had done something great. He had saved the wizarding world's hope for survival. Given his life so that the rest could continue to fight for what is good. Molly allows herself a small smile, thinking on just how right she and Arthur had been. She twists the knob and slips inside Harry's room. 

 

The walls are still lined with Quidditch paraphernalia, the same vibrant orange wallpaper of Chudley Cannons posters that has always greeted visitors to the room. Although, the colour seems muted and the players have lost their zip; the brooms no longer jump quickly from poster to poster. When her children were younger, Molly complained weekly of their obsession with the game. Arthur used to sit by with quiet amusement as she fretted over unsafe brooms and break-neck speeds. Even now, she can remember the sheer terror of watching her children play an impromptu game of Quidditch, ignoring her protests that it was dangerous. What an innocent time that had been, when her biggest worry was her child falling a few feet from a broomstick…

 

 

_Molly was standing at the sink, cleaning up the remnants of the lunch her large family had just eaten, supervising the dishes as they washed themselves in soapy water. All of her vibrant-haired children were gathered outside – a mismatched game of Weasley Quidditch was set to be played._

 

_Bill, newly twelve, was home for the summer after his first year at Hogwarts. He had come home with tales of wonder and enchantment that left the rest of Molly's children bright-eyed with anticipation of their days at the school. And every day now, the boys insisted on practicing Quidditch, so that when they went off to Hogwarts, they would be ready for the house team._

 

_Usually, when only Bill and Charlie practiced Quidditch, Molly allowed them the freedom to use the field behind the Burrow, but when all of them were present they had to stay in the gnome-filled, over-grown yard, so that she was able to keep on eye on the younger boys._

 

_Molly glanced out of the window to see Bill patiently explaining to Ron (a boisterous five year old) how to keep his balance on the broom. For Christmas, Molly and Arthur had bought the family a group of six second-hand brooms. They were all the boys could talk about, even Percy._

 

_Now, Percy perched precariously on his Cleansweep – his hands white-knuckled on the handle, his indoor-pale face scrunched up in concentration – a few feet off the ground as Fred and George flew circles around him. Molly stuck her head out the window, prepared to yell, when Charlie intercepted and distracted the twins with an enchanted apple. The two flew off, laughing noisily, and Percy was left looking calmer._

 

_He lowered the broom down to little Ginny – who was rocking back and forth on her heels, her hair (that Molly had smoothed and put up only an hour ago) already in total disarray. Molly watched as Percy bent his head down to Ginny._

 

_"Can you take me up, please, Percy?"_

 

_Percy looked alarmed at the very thought. He shook his head firmly. "No, Gin." His voice carried easily across the yard. "Mum said you could watch, but you're not to be in the air. Go sit over there, where Polly Anne is. She looks lonely."_

 

_Molly could see Ginny's hands clench tightly. "Polly Anne is a_ doll _," she said in a superior tone. "She's not lonely." But Ginny turned and stomped over to the picnic table, anyway – kicking a stone in her path – and sat down in a huff of red hair, glaring stonily at her brothers flying around the yard._

 

_Satisfied that Percy would be able to keep control, Molly turned away from the window to float her dishes safely to her cupboard. Only a moment later, however, she rushed back to the window, summoned by Ginny's screech of, "Ron!" She arrived just in time to see her youngest boy hit the ground roughly in a tangle of limbs._

 

_"What is going on?" she cried out the window before flicking her wrist. Moments later, she had Apparated to Ron's side._

 

_"I'm sorry, Mum," said Bill, looking very pale beneath his freckles. "I thought he had it."_

 

_Molly bent down to Ron – who looked on the verge of tears, his freckled face scrunched up in pain – and could immediately see that his left arm was broken; it was lying in an awkward position beneath him._

 

_"Come on, darling," she said soothingly, scooping him into her arms and bringing him into the house. "Bill," she called over her shoulder, "no more playing until your father arrives home from work."_

 

_"Aw, Mum," complained George._

 

_"Just because Ron's hurt?" continued Fred._

 

_"No more!" said Molly firmly. "And Ginny, sweetheart, don't cry. He'll be fine."_

 

_Molly stepped into the house and moved to lower Ron onto a sofa. Once away from the eyes of his brothers, Ron began to howl earnestly. Molly could only make out a few words, the most prominent being, "hurt," "arm," and "bugger." Not two minuets later, while Molly was looking up the charm for setting an arm (Surprisingly, even with the twins rambunctious nature, she had never needed to memorize the charm), Ginny timidly entered the room. She went straight to Ron – who was still crying big, salty tears – wrapped her spindly arms around his neck and pressed her face against his._

 

_Molly, after having located the spell, looked up to see Ron sweeping a hand across his cheek._

 

_"Are you alright?" Ginny whispered anxiously._

 

_"Yeah," he sniffed, "but my arm hurts."_

 

_"You fell really far," she told him. "I was scared for you."_

 

_Ron sniffed one last time. "Well, I'm okay. It wasn't that far actually."_

 

_"Yes, it was," said Ginny. "You must be very brave."_

 

_Ron smiled at his sister, puffing out his chest a little. "You think so?"_

 

_Ginny nodded solemnly, then climbed onto the sofa, stretching her legs out in front of her._

 

_"Alright," said Molly, walking over to them. Outside, she saw five freckled faces peering into house, all looking quite worried. She gave them all a reassuring sort of smile and aimed her wand at Ron's arm. Beside him, Ginny took his right hand in her own and gave a squeeze. When he was all patched up (except for a few bumps and bruises that would need a potion to heal properly), Molly gave him a few chocolate biscuits and some pumpkin juice. She shook her head amusedly as only an hour later Ron was begging to be allowed to ride a broom once more._

 

 

Molly shakes her head to clear her mind and glances around Harry's room once more. She sees her daughter and Harry lying on the bed.

 

They are both facing away from the door, toward the window. Molly can tell by the position of Harry's arm that it is resting over Ginny's body and that Ginny is curled up completely into Harry. Their breathing is matched. She can see the rise and fall of Harry's back as he takes in contented, sleep-heavy breaths.

 

She makes a mental note to have a talk with Ginny about this today, a talk she should have had a while ago; yet, she also knows she will not forbid this. There have been a dozen mornings in the short two weeks the children have been home that she has come to find Harry's face wet with tears, although he is sleeping. To see him relaxed is something she can't bear to end. 

 

As she watches the two of them, Harry's back tightens up, and his breathing grows irregular. Molly very quietly tries to back out the room. She gets as far as the door when she sees Harry reach one arm high above his head, his neck rolling slightly as he stretches it. 

 

Slowly and gently, Harry extracts his arm from underneath Ginny. As Molly looks on, Harry braces his head upon his bent arm and stares down at the sleeping girl beside him. Molly imagines she knows the look upon his face. She has seen it on all of her children at one time or another – the look of wonder that they have found someone who erases their fears and bolsters their hope. It's a look that adolescents often have, when first finding love. She allows herself a smile when she thinks back on Ron and Hermione, and the first time she saw her son give that look to his soon-to-be girlfriend.

 

 

_Grimmauld place was over-shadowed by grief. The children all looked quite ready to cry at the drop of a pin, and the adults were much too involved in fighting a war – and protecting the rest of the Order – to attempt to help them grieve. Tonight, though, was Molly's turn to stay at headquarters, and she had insisted after dinner that the four students, who would be returning to Hogwarts in a few, short days, stay downstairs and play a game of chess or Exploding Snap – anything that would keep them in her presence for a little while longer – and would prevent Harry from holing up alone in the room he shared with Ron._

 

_Ron had coaxed Harry into playing a game of chess, while Ginny and Hermione both watched. A quarter of the way through the game, though, Harry began consulting with Ginny about what moves to make, and Ron, complaining about the unfairness of Harry using a Weasley to win the game, began conversing secretly with Hermione every time he made a move. Molly watched him listen attentively as Hermione made small gestures with her hands and spoke with a serious look upon her face. Molly smiled slightly, knowing that even with Ginny's help, Harry was going to lose against Ron (Ginny was never very good at chess), and Molly knew that Ron knew this as well. She watched surreptitiously beneath her lashes, her hands automatically knitting, as a focused, curious light came into Ron's eyes every time he looked at Hermione._

 

_A blind person would have very little trouble distinguishing the feelings that radiated off Ron; he was confused and scared, but accepting and filled with anticipation as well. He was sixteen and falling in love with his best friend. Watching gave Molly a feeling of contentment. She laughed slightly as Ron made a move on the board, apparently ignoring Hermione's advice, and the young witch sat back with a huff, telling him not to ask her if he wasn't going to take her advice. Molly watched Ron roll his eyes and tell her that her instructions weren't the right instructions._

 

_"You're the smartest witch I know," Ron said. "But you're not that good at chess, Hermione."_

 

Both Ginny and Harry looked on with bright eyes, appearing hard-pressed to keep their laughter in. Hermione, for her part, didn't appear to know whether to blush or yell. She huffed once more, but smiled just the same, her cheeks taking on a lovely glow. After Harry and Ginny had made another move (one that had both Ron and Hermione grinning like Cheshire cats), the two moved their heads close together again and started conversing in low voices. Molly looked on as every once in awhile their hands would brush together, and they would jump apart as if burnt by fire. It wouldn't be long, Molly knew, before they would no longer need or want to jump away from one another.

 

 

Ginny begins to stir from her sleep. As quietly as she can, Molly backs out of the room, reaching to shut the door as she hears Harry's low voice greet her daughter. By the time Ginny mumbles something back, the door is shut completely. Molly turns and makes her way back down the stairs. She pauses outside the twins' room again, although this time she is facing an open door to her right. Inside is a small desk that was forever littered with papers and awards when the house was full of children. 

 

The room is quite empty now. The boys who had once resided it in are all much too old to live at home; they have jobs and are ready to soon start families of their own. Even Percy, who only just came home for the first time in a year a few weeks ago, is engaged. Molly quickly breathes in a deep breath of relief. She doesn't think she could bear not being with her most serious son when he took the next step into adulthood. Her eyes narrow slightly and she feels a fresh sting of wetness. Percy had never fully managed to reconcile with Ron – he never managed a reconciliation with any of the family until recently, and only then because of tragedy. 

 

Molly presses her lips together and squeezes her eyes shut, screwing up her face against the memory of Percy's shaking hands and trembling lips.

 

_There didn't seem to be anything to say. They sat there, her family, staring at one another, too shocked to hug or cry. Molly felt adrift at sea, an emptiness in her belly unlike anything she'd ever experienced, a ringing in her mind that clouded all judgment. She should be making tea, or comforting her children. She should be making decisions about the funeral and their future. All she could do, however, was sit on the sofa, a few inches from the warmth of Arthur and curl up into herself. Looking at the faces of her children only seemed to remind her of the one who she had lost. Reaching for comfort in them only seemed to remind her of the one who she would never again comfort._

 

_A knock on the back door announced his arrival, and Arthur, after placing a reassuring hand on Molly's shoulder, went off to let Percy in, leaving Molly with the twins and Bill. Charlie was staying at Hogwarts with Ginny for a few days, as she insisted she didn't want to leave school, and Molly felt she, Harry and Hermione needed to have family with them._

 

_Through the door that lead into the kitchen, Molly watched Percy as he followed Arthur into the front room, his head hung low, his hands clutching desperately at one another, his shoulders slouched low as if under a great burden. Despite not being able to see his face, Molly could guarantee tears falling gently among his freckles; his whole body shook with the effort of holding back sobs._

 

_When he entered the room, Percy raised tired, brown eyes, red-rimmed and minus their glasses. He paused just inside the door, while Arthur moved to his spot on the sofa next to Molly. Molly watched, wanting to jump up and put her arms around him, but somehow unable to give him the comfort he obviously needed._

 

_She saw him swallow unsteadily. "Mum," he said in an anguished voice, pleading._

 

_Before Molly could move, however, George stood up and crossed the distance to Percy in three long strides. Molly considered calling to him to leave his brother alone. She considered moving to intercept George. But she only watched, as if fascinated by some horror scene, the hollowness in her belly moving to the rest of her, so that she felt numb to protect any more of her children. She watched Percy's eyes widen and saw George pull back his arm._

 

_Instead of the hit she had been expecting, George wound his arms around Percy and pulled him into a tight hug._

 

_Percy seemed stunned for a moment, his arms still caught between the two of them. But, slowly, he too embraced his brother. Within moments, the family that had been sitting oddly detached from one another were huddled together, grieving for the loss of their own, spurred on by the return of another, brought together by the one who had been alone._

 

 

It's no matter now. All of the family would be here today, along with many members of the Order, and they would smile and laugh and eat as if one of the precious few hadn't been ripped from them. She would be forced to put on a brave face, trying very hard not to imagine what the rest of her life would be like without Ron, knowing full well that tears were hovering just beneath the surface of many of the happy faces that would be in her house. 

 

Molly turns away from the empty, dark room and forces herself to move toward her kitchen. She has only a few short hours to prepare the Christmas meal. When she enters the room, she sees Arthur sitting at the table, a special edition of _The_ _Daily Prophet_ resting next to a mug of tea. His eyes are down cast, studying the paper. 

 

Upon her arrival he lifts his tired gaze to her. "Morning, love," he says quietly, a small smile not quite reaching his lovely blue eyes. 

 

"Good morning, dear," she replies back as he stands from his seat and starts toward her. "I thought you were going to try and have a lie-in on your day off?"

 

"Couldn't sleep."

 

Molly nods. Her husband stops in front of her, taking both of her hands in his. "Are you doing all right this morning?" he asks quietly, concern colouring his eyes. 

 

Molly swallows and gives another nod. "I'm fine, dear," she tells him, although she knows he doesn't believe her. 

His hands move around her and pull her close. She can feel the soothing rhythm of his breathing as she burrows into his warmth. "Are any of the children up, yet?" 

 

"Harry and Ginny are," Molly answers automatically, even as she cringes inwardly, realizing she is implicating the two teenagers. 

 

Arthur tenses slightly, pulling back from her to stare at her face, which she is trying unsuccessfully to arrange into an innocent demeanor. He gives a slight nod, and a ghost of a smile forms upon his face. "Of course they are," he says quietly. 

 

Molly smiles back at him. She knows no one but he would have the understanding to accept the situation with his daughter and Harry, who he loves as a son. She feels a swell of emotion toward him that is surprising; it's only love, tinged with no grief, for the first time in almost a month. 

 

She stares in slight wonder at him as he asks what he can do to help with the meal today. Understanding forms somewhere in the pit of her stomach, as she points her wand at the old ice-box in the corner of the room, giving him instructions for the roast she plans to prepare. She would miss her youngest son until she was able to join him. She would quite possible grieve for the rest of her life, as would her family. But the grief would not stay as sharp as it is today. They would all survive and learn to live again, and they would help one another do that. Their love for each other would sustain them. 

 

Molly walks over to the stove, her heart light, and she begins whipping eggs in a bowl. From upstairs she can hear the sounds of her family coming to life; in a few hours they would be joined by all of their loved ones. She briefly closes her eyes, sending all of her love to her youngest baby boy, knowing deep within her that he is smiling, wherever he is.

End

 

 


	5. Chapter 5: Ron

  
Author's notes: _When my prebeta Annika sent this back to me, she commented (quite a bit) on how much Ron rocks!  And he does.  Here’s why:_  


* * *

Chapter 5: Ron

 

 

 

“Do you think he’s okay back there by himself?”

 

Ron looks over at Hermione.  Her cheeks still hold a bit of blush in them.  He likes her best this way – when she lets her guard down a little.  It makes her look happier.  

 

“I’m sure he is, Hermione.  But…if it’ll make you feel better….”  Ron turns to look behind him, still keeping Hermione’s hand clutched in his.  “Harry, mate, c’mon!  You’re walking so slowly.”  

 

Beside him, Hermione turns around.  Ron is delighted to see her eyes hold a sparkle of mischief.  “Yeah, c’mon Harry, let’s go!”  She gestures with the hand that is clutched in Ron’s, causing his to move with it – the movement sends delicious shivers all through him.  Ron smiles widely as he hears Hermione offer, “You can hold my other hand if you want….”

 

Seeing the laughter on Harry’s face causes Ron's smile to grow to an impossible size.  Wanting to keep it there as long as possible, he asks, “You want to hold my hand, then?”  He holds his hand out for Harry, feeling Hermione shake beside him.  Harry makes a very rude gesture – one that Ron is secretly proud of, if only because it causes Hermione to shriek like a banshee. 

 

“I’m fine, you two.  Don’t worry.  I’m just a little behind you.”

 

Ron watches Hermione as she turns her head, checking to see if there are any hidden perils on the way to the Shrieking Shack.  “You sure?” she asks.

 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” answers Harry.

 

Ron senses Hermione’s discomfort; she’s gearing up to demand that Harry walk with them.  She’s probably preparing to put him in between the two of them, just to keep an eye on him.  But Ron doesn’t want to let go of her hand, and Harry is clearly enjoying a moment’s peace –something he never seems to get anymore; the bloody professors were always keeping an eye on him, following him around as if they were afraid You-Know-Who was going to show up during Flitwick’s Charms lesson.

 

“All right, Harry,” Ron says, cutting Hermione off just before she says something all motherly and concerned.  “Just be careful,” he adds, perhaps because Hermione squeezes his hand a little too hard. He glances around.  Even in the daylight, with the sun bouncing brightly off the new-fallen snow, there are shadows he doesn’t like.  An unpleasant chill makes him shiver slightly.  It causes him to add, “And don’t fall too far behind, 'kay?” which raises a flush of heat beneath his freckles.  When in the name of Merlin did he start telling Harry what to do? 

 

Harry doesn’t look as if he minds though.  He smiles again, all ease and comfort, making Ron forget a chill had even swept through him only moments before.  

 

“G’ahead!” Harry yells up to them.  “I’m okay.”  

 

Ron letshis eyes sweep around the outskirts of Hogsmeade again, finally coming to rest on Harry, where they linger on his lightning-shaped scar.  It’s been so long since he’s thought about what that scar actually stood for.  Even amidst a war in which Harry is likely to play the biggest part – due entirely to that scar – Ron doesn’t often let himself think about what it might truly mean to Harry.  He wants suddenly to tell him something…something meaningful.  “I love you” seems inappropriate – he does love him, of course, and he knows Harry feels the same, but it’s not the sort of thing you say to your best mate.  He considers just saying that: you’re my best mate.  But Harry knows that already.

 

Ron stands there, looking down at his friend, when Harry catches his eye and gives another wide, easy smile; one that he returns.  In the end, he feels Hermione tugging on his hand, urging him to keep walking, and so he does, saying nothing.  He wishes he would have, though.  

 

 

_“So, then,” his mum said, glancing around where a group of children were scattered in a semi-circle around her feet. “You-Know-Who disappeared. Nobody knows exactly why, but they do know that something in little Harry Potter couldn’t be touched by the wickedness of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.  And now he has a scar….”  She brought her hand up and drew a zigzag line down Ron’s forehead.  “Right here.”_

 

_“Wow,” breathed Ron.  The scar was always his favourite part.  It was certainly cool that Harry Potter had made You-Know-Who vanish, but the best part was that he got a lighting-shaped scar on his head.  Ron thought he probably showed it to everyone, wore it like a badge of honour – kind of like the time he, Ron, fell off of his broom and broke his arm.  His knee had a scar that he wouldn’t let his mum heal properly; the twins and Charlie had said it was really cool.  If you looked at it from the right angle it sort of looked like a frog._

 

_“I just don’t see how it’s possible that a baby defeated the most powerful wizard ever,” said Percy in a superior tone, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses.  “You-Know-Who killed lots of people.  Why couldn’t he kill a little baby?”_

 

_“Who cares?” said George, rather dismissively, as he usually was with Percy._

 

_“The point is,” agreed Fred, “that he did do it.”_

 

_“Well, it doesn’t seem very likely, is all.”_

 

_“It’s because he’s special,” Ron announced quickly.  He could see Ginny nodding her head in agreement, her hair shimmering down her back.  “Harry Potter has something that…that no one has, probably….”  Ron trailed off when he noticed everyone’s eyes trained upon him._

 

_“Yes,” said Percy, “but what?  What makes him so special?”_

 

_Ron glanced around at his siblings, the group who were too young to attend Hogwarts.  All were watching him expectantly, as if he somehow had the answer as to why You-Know-Who couldn’t hurt Harry Potter.  Ginny’s face was the most curious.  She looked at him with open trust, and there was a slight hint of wistfulness behind her eyes, but she seemed to genuinely believe Ron knew what he was talking about, as she always seemed to think.  Only Percy looked truly sceptical._

 

_Ron peered up at his mum.  She smiled at him and gave a slight nod of her head, as if she too thought him capable of this knowledge._

 

_He looked at Percy again and felt himself scowl.  “It’s because he’s good,” Ron said simply._

 

_“He’s awesome,” added Fred._

 

_Ron watched Ginny stand from her spot on the floor next to him and climb onto their mum’s lap.  At five, she was the only Weasley child who still had no problem cuddling up with their mum._

 

_“No,” he said to Fred.  “I don’t mean he’s cool or anything…I mean he’s good.  Just something in him is…good.”  Ron gave a little growl of frustration.  This wasn’t coming out right._

 

_“Well, clearly, he’s good,” agreed Percy (although Ron thought he saw a faint frown on his face).  “But_ why _is he good?”_

 

_Ron gave a frustrated humph.  “He just is, Perce.  It’s like that the sky is blue.  Harry Potter is just good.”_

 

_“Like a Unicorn,” Ginny announced happily from their mum’s lap._

 

_“Yeah,” said Ron, excited.  “Like a Unicorn.  He was born that way.  Like the inside of him is un…unto….”_

 

_“Untouchable…” his mum offered._

 

_“Mmm hmm.”  Ron nodded.  “Untouchable.  So, it didn’t matter that You-Know-Who tried to kill him, because there was something in him that You-Know-Who couldn’t hurt.”_

 

_“All right,” said Percy.  “What was inside of him that You-Know-Who couldn’t hurt, then?”_

 

_“I dunno,” Ron told him.  “I don’t think it matters, either.  What does matter is that whatever is inside of him, saved him.  It…it saved everyone, right?”  Ron looked to his mum for confirmation.  “You-Know-Who killed loads of people.  He probably would’ve hurt lots more, too.  But he can’t now, because Harry saved everyone.  Maybe…maybe he was supposed to save everyone.”_

 

_Ron watched his mum nod at him again.  Her eyes looked curiously bright, and he watched her pull Ginny more firmly onto her lap._

 

_Ron looked back at Percy, who was watching him with a curious expression.  “D’ you mean destiny?” Percy asked, cocking his head slightly to the right._

 

_“I don’t know….”_

 

_“Destiny, Ron,” said his mum, “is something one is born to do.”_

 

_Ron thought for a moment.  “Yeah,” he finally agreed, nodding his head.  “I mean it was destiny.  Harry Potter was born to save us.”_

 

 

Heading further away from the village, Ron turns from Harry and walks away.  He glances over at his girlfriend, studying her in the shimmering winter light as they walk toward the Shack.  

 

“What are you looking at?” Hermione asks him, a wispy smile playing around her lips.

 

Ron grins at her.  “Not a thing,” he says, although he continues to stare.  She has a small scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, shadows of what appear when she spends time in the sun.  Ron can’t decide what he likes more, her smooth skin of the winter or her sun-kissed freckles of the summer.  He thinks perhaps it’s lovely that she has both.

 

Hermione rolls her eyes heavenward and presses her lips together, as though to keep from smiling widely.  “Well, stop it,” she demands, even as her cheeks heat up.

 

Ron squeezes her hand.  “Stop what?”

 

Hermione laughs.  “Stop staring at me.”

 

“Why?”

 

She huffs.  “Ron,” she whines.

 

“Her _mione_ ,” He affects her tone, laughing when she sighs dramatically.

 

“It makes me nervous,” she tells him.

 

“Does it?”  He watches her nod.  “Well, it shouldn’t.  You’re beautiful.” 

 

“You’re the only one that thinks so,” Hermione informs him.  The two slow down slightly.  Ron can’t seem to take his eyes off of her; he feels a shiver of pleasure every time she smiles, or her eyes flash bright at him.  It’s still an amazing thing to him, to know that Hermione is his girlfriend – that she loves him, as she told him for the first time just a few weeks ago. 

 

“I’m not the only one that thinks you’re beautiful, Hermione.”

 

She looks at him sceptically. 

 

“Krum….” Ron scowls slightly at the name.  “He thought you were pretty.”

 

“So two whole people.  Wow.”

 

“Harry thinks you’re pretty, too.  He told me so.”

 

“Harry.”  Hermione rolls her eyes again.  “He’s my best friend.  Of course he says I’m pretty.”

 

“No.  He told me I was really lucky to have you, y’know?  Said you were pretty, and you’re obviously a genius….”  Ron laughs when Hermione beams at him, amused at how she still loves to hear about her over-large intelligence.  “He said you were great.”

 

“We-ell,” Hermione agrees.  “You are quite lucky to have me.”

 

Ron stops and turns to face her fully, pulling her other hand into his grip.  He watches her lips drop open slightly.  “Yes,” he says, “I am quite lucky.”

 

 

_“Harry, mate, there’s something I need to tell you.”  Ron wiped his damp hands on his robes.  This was almost more terrifying than working up the courage to kiss Hermione.  Almost._

 

_Harry looked engrossed in the book Hermione had given him for his birthday that summer,_ The Encyclopedia of Defence Spells for the Earnest and Slightly Paranoid Student. _He hadn’t even looked up when Ron had walked into the dormitory.  Instead, he kept his eyes trained on the text, his tongue peaking out slightly as it did when he was concentrating hard; a habit Ron doubted he was even aware of._

 

_“Hmm,” said Harry, still not looking up from the book._

 

_Ron sighed.  “I need you to put that book away, first.”_

 

_“What?”  Harry glanced up, his eyes glazed over slightly.  “Oh, right.  Sorry.”  He closed the book and placed it on the bed next to him, turning back around to face Ron.  “What is it?  You all right?”_

 

_“Yeah, yeah, course.  I’m fine.”  Ron sucked in a deep breath, not entirely certain how to proceed and internally cursing Hermione for making him do this alone.  “It’s just…there’s something I need to tell you….”_

 

_Harry’s eyebrows came together.  “What is it, Ron?”_

 

_Ron sat himself down on his wrinkled, red quilt, so that he was facing his best mate.  He drew in another deep breath, trying to steady himself._

 

_“Ron?” Harry asked, starting to sound panicky._

 

_“Okay, well, y’know how you’ve been going to bed…and I generally stay up later – since we’ve been back…?”_

 

_“Yeah,” said Harry, looking decidedly bemused._

 

_“Well, it’s not just – I mean, I haven’t been….”  He paused.  “Hermione’s been staying awake with me, to…to study and things.”_

 

_“Oh.”  A flicker of something passed through Harry’s eyes.  Ron felt his heart speed up in his chest._

 

_“The thing is, Harry, I really like her.”_

 

_Harry’s eyes took on a curious gleam.  Ron watched the side of his face twitch.  “I like her, too.”_

 

_Ron felt his heart plummet.  “You like_ Hermione _?”_

 

_“Of course I do,” Harry said.  He pressed his lips into a thin line.  “She’s my best friend.”_

 

_“I’m not your best friend?”  Ron demanded._

 

_Harry huffed loudly, shooting him an exasperated look. “You know what I mean.  Of course you’re my best mate.  Hermione’s my girl best friend.”_

 

_“Oh.  Okay.  You’re…you’re my best mate, too,” Ron assured him, just in case he was worried.  When Harry looked blankly at him, he continued.  “But, no, I mean, yeah, I like Hermione.  She’s one of my best friends, too.  But the thing is…she’s not just my friend anymore.”_

 

_Something flickered in Harry’s eyes again.  Ron watched as his jet-black eyebrows rose.  “She’s not?”_

 

_“No.”  Ron paused, looking Harry directly in the eye.  “She’s my girlfriend,” he said solemnly._

 

_“Your girlfriend,” Harry repeated slowly._

 

_“Yeah.”  Ron stood from his spot on the bed and began to pace.  “The thing is, Harry….”  He glanced over at the boy still sitting down with a mild curious expression on his face.  “I really like her.  I mean I like her like her. I have for a while now, too.  I just never imagined that she’d -.”  He stopped again, feeling a smile grow on his face.  “But she likes me, too.  She told me last night that she thought I was handsome.”  Ron felt his chest puff out a little.  “And she thinks I’m smart, and really funny – she told me….”_

 

_He glanced at Harry, who was staring at him in open amusement.  Ron shook himself slightly.  “But that’s not the point.  The point is that we’re going out.”  He screwed up his face, trying to remember everything that Hermione had told him to say to Harry earlier in the day.  “But I…well we, actually, want you to know that this won’t change anything.  You’re still our best friend and nothing is ever going to change that.  We won’t leave for long hours of time to…to snog or anything….”_

 

_“I don’t need to hear about you two snogging,” Harry interrupted.  Ron looked over at him again to find Harry laughing out right._

 

_“What’s so funny?” Ron asked, feeling slightly put out._

 

_Harry shook his head.  “Nothing.  It’s just, did Hermione tell you to say that?”_

 

_Ron grinned sheepishly.  “Yeah.”  He sat back down.  “You could tell?”_

 

_Harry smiled.  “I won’t tell on you, though.”_

 

_“Are you…I mean…you’re okay with this, right?”_

 

_“Course,” said Harry, matter-of-factly._

 

_Ron felt a weight leave his chest.  “Hermione thought you’d feel weird about it.”_

 

_Harry looked to think about it for a moment.  He shook his head again.  “No, I…I mean, I guess it’ll be weird at first, seeing you two hold hands and things, but really, I’m fine with it.  Are you going to fight less?” he asked rather hopefully._

 

_“We don’t fight that much!” Ron exclaimed._

 

_Harry snorted._

 

_“We don’t!”_

 

_“Okay, Ron,” Harry said sarcastically.  He grew serious.  “Just…just – you know…be good to her an’ all.”  Ron watched Harry grow awkward.  “She’s…I mean Hermione’s a…bit bossy, and I know I snap at her sometimes, but she’s really pretty great.”_

 

_Ron smiled.  “Yeah, she is….”_

 

_Harry was laughing at him again.  “But, if anyone should be with her, it’s you, mate.”_

 

_“You think so?”_

 

_“I know so,” Harry said._

 

 

Ron gives a small groan of frustration when Hermione pulls her lips away.  

 

“Harry,” she says to him, blushing prettily.

 

“No, I’m Ron,” he says, winking at her.

 

Hermione laughs.  “Harry’s watching us.”

 

“Oh, Harry doesn’t care.”  He raises his voice slightly,    “Do you, mate?”  Ron glances over, expecting to see the same look of resigned amusement Harry always wears when Ron kisses Hermione in front of him, and he feels his stomach drop.  Harry is not there. 

 

“Harry!” he calls out.  

 

Out of the corner of his eye he watches Hermione turn to where Harry should be.  In a matter of moments he sees a whole world of emotion flicker through her eyes: surprise, guilt and finally panic.  “Harry,” she yells shrilly, “that’s not funny!  Get out here.  Now!”

 

Ron feels his insides slowly hallowing out.  He glances quickly from side to side, eyes scanning the landscape desperately.  

 

“Ron?”  He feels Hermione tugging on his arm and looks down at her.  Already, he can see her eyes filling with frustrated tears.  “Where is he?  Oh, my goodness, where is he?”

 

“I dunno, Hermione….”

 

“He has to be around somewhere.  He can’t be gone.”  Hermione is shaking her head from side to side.  Her chest underneath her school robes is moving very fast.  She appears to be having trouble taking in a steady breath of air. “Ron, what are we going to do?  Where is he?”

 

Ron makes a quick decision.  He grasps Hermione’s hands in his own, hoping to steady her.  He feels her hands tremble slightly, and can see tears clinging to her dark lashes.  “ _You_ are going to go into the village and find a professor.  Or an Auror.”  He watches Hermione nod her head and take a deep breath.  She looks calmer already, as if all she needed was to be given a direction with which to go.  “But don’t talk to the Auror unless you know them.”

 

The two of them begin walking toward the village.  Hermione’s hand is still tightly clasped in Ron’s.  They stop at the beginning of the main road.  “If its Tonks or Moody or someone, let them know, otherwise, find someone you know.  Just because they’re an Auror, it doesn’t mean they’re on our side, okay?”

 

The further they walk away from the Shrieking Shack, the more disconcerted Ron feels.  He brushes the feeling aside, however, and continues into the village with Hermione.  “I’m going t’ start looking in shops.  Maybe he just went to find Ginny and Neville.”

 

He can see the doubt in Hermione’s eyes, and tries to ingest more confidence into his voice.  “It’ll be okay,” he tells her.  “Harry…he’s probably just sick of us snogging and didn’t want to bother us….”

 

Hermione doesn’t even try to acknowledge that this is probably not true.  She looks at Ron, and he watches her take another deep breath.  “Okay.  I’ll go try to find someone.”  She starts to pull away and head toward the Three Broomsticks.  Ron is reluctant to let her go.  He tugs on Hermione’s arm, turning her back toward him.

 

He leans forward quickly to brush his lips along hers, and feels her take in a shaky breath. “I love you,” he murmurs.  “Everything’ll be all right, 'kay?”

 

She nods and swallows harshly.  “I love you too,” she whispers.  “Good luck.” 

 

Ron watches her walk away.  He quickly moves toward the village, his pace becoming faster as he realizes he’s not quite sure how long Harry has been missing.  To his left, he sees Hermione rush into the Three Broomsticks.  He comes to a halt at the entrance of a robe shop and glances in.  Harry isn’t there.  He continues on, his palms beginning to shake as there is no sign of messy, raven hair in any of the shops.

 

After disappearing into a long row of shops, one after another – none that hold Harry – Ron storms out of Zonko’s, yelling behind him to Neville that he can’t find Harry.  He doesn’t wait for the boy’s reply.  He glances down the street and sees the Shrieking Shack silhouetted against the bright, blue horizon.  Behind it, the sun is already setting, and the shack stands highlighted, looking more ominous than Ron had ever thought it did. 

 

Following an instinct he wishes he had listened to ten minutes ago, he rushes back toward the shack.  His feet seem to move almost of their own accord.  He feels bile rise up in his throat at the idea of rushing into the shack alone, but even stopping to explain to Hermione, who he sees gesturing wildly to a pink haired Tonks outside the pub, will take much too long.  Instead, he rushes toward the spot he and Hermione had just come from, confident that the Aurors and professors he sees Apparating into the village will follow him.  

 

Once near the shack, he hears a scream that shakes him to the core.  His heart begins to pound erratically.  _Please let him be okay,_ he prays.  _Please…._

 

Behind him, he can hear voices shouting at him to stop.  But it’s too late.  He already knows what he must do.  Pulling out his wand, Ron rushes into the shack, moving quickly down the narrow passageway and practically flying down the dark staircase into the room from where he can hear two voices – which he recognizes as Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy – shouting out a curse.  The whole shack is shaking under the force of Harry’s scream.  The sound causes Ron’s ears to ring; although, it is out of a pure hatred boiling through him, like nothing he has ever felt before, rather than from the deafening noise of Harry’s scream. 

 

Banging open the door, Ron aims his wand at the two Death Eaters, yelling out “ _Accio_ wands,” in a clear, controlled voice.  He looks over to see tears streaking Harry’s face; he feels as if someone has punched him in the stomach.  

 

Above him, Ron hears the floor creak.  Feeling relief sweep through him, he yells, “Professor! He’s down here! Someone hurry.”  He keeps his wand, clutched tightly in his damp grip, trained on the two figures in front of him, kicking their wands behind him, toward a corner of the room.  

 

Slowly, he moves his gaze around the room, feeling a sense of heightened panic when he sees Peter Pettigrew smiling coldly at him from the opposite corner.  He feels his heart leap into his throat, and he’s quite certain all of the blood has left his face.  “You,” is all he’s able to spit out, feeling his voice shake with emotion.  Ron tries to grip his wand tighter, but it is growing slippery in his hand. 

 

“Hello, Ron,” Pettigrew says to him.  Ron longs to tell him to shut it.  He wants to yell out Pettigrew’s betrayal, but his throat seems to have closed up.  He keeps his eyes pinned on the wand in his former pet’s hand, watching as if in slow motion, as the small, grotesque man brings his wand to the ready, aiming it directly at Ron.  He prepares to throw out a shield charm when Pettigrew yells out, “ _Accio_ ….”  

 

Overhead, more footsteps can be heard, distracting Pettigrew.  “Hurry!” Ron cries out again.  “Please.”

 

“You fool.”  The harsh voice makes him whip his head around.  Lestrange is talking to Pettigrew.  “Do it now. Master will not forgive you if we mess this up again _.”_

 

Pettigrew’s wand is still aimed at Ron, but deep within himself, Ron knows that he is not who they are meant to hurt. Steeling himself, Ron moves forward.  This is it.  He feels it with every pore of his body.  He watches Harry’s face – seeing a resignation in it that makes him sad.  He will not let his friend die this way.  Ron knows that Harry is far too important.  He knew it even at eleven.

 

 

_“Are you really Harry Potter?”  The unassuming boy nodded his head.  Ron felt a quiet sort of excitement speed through him.  “And have you really got – you know….”_

 

_The boy with the funny glasses pushed up his fringe of hair with a skinny hand._

 

_“So that’s where You-Know-Who - ?”_

 

_“Yes,” he said, “but I can’t remember.”_

 

_He was not at all what Ron had expected.  He was far too skinny; his clothes didn’t fit him well; his smile, while excited, didn’t quite reach his eyes.  But he was quick to defend Ron; he looked just as bewildered by the know-it-all girl who came into their compartment as Ron had felt; and he seemed to have no problem sharing his array of sweets with Ron.  He was cool, actually, and quite funny._

 

_Somewhere in Ron’s eleven-year-old body, he felt a tug, a pull toward this boy.  This boy, whom his parents had told him stories about since he could remember.  This boy who defeated the darkest wizard ever.  This boy who laughs, and looks terrified and brave.  This boy who was the best friend he ever had, within hours of meeting.  This boy was somebody special, and he seemed to think Ron was, as well._

 

_~*~_

 

_He stood on the chessboard, shouting out orders to Hermione, Harry and the rest of the black, life-size chess pieces._    _More and more of those pieces fell, smashed to the grown by their opposing team.  Ron watched it all, feeling like the commander of a ship._

 

_“Yes…” he said, staring at the queen who was standing if front of him, as if waiting for his move.  “It’s the only way…I’ve got to be taken.”_

 

_He wasn’t entirely aware he had spoken out loud until he heard both Hermione and Harry shout, “NO!” at the same time._

 

_Ron felt his patience seep away.  They were losing precious time, and it was Harry – as they all knew – who had to go on.  It was Harry who must face whatever dangers were in the next rooms.  “That’s chess!” he snapped at them, feeling only slightly guilty when he saw Hermione’s bottom lip tremble.  “You’ve got to make some sacrifices!  I take one step forward and she’ll take me – that leaves you free to checkmate the king, Harry!”_

 

_“But –.”_

 

_“Do you want to stop Snape or not?” he demanded._

 

_“Ron –.”_

 

_“Look, if you don’t hurry up, he’ll already have the stone!”  Ron paused for a moment, feeling himself shake a little.  He drew in a steadying breath.  “Ready?”  He felt his face set.  “Here I go – now, don’t hang around once you’ve won.”_

 

_He took a determined step forward, and saw the white queen take aim at him. The blow was swift, only a sharp moment of pain before blackness encased him._

 

_~*~_

 

_He stood there, looking manic and frightening, Ron’s wand trained directly on Harry.  Ron watched Sirius Black move about the room, his eyes alight with madness._

 

_He would not hurt Harry.  Ron wouldn’t let him.  He might not know the meaning of friendship.  But Ron did.  He knew it meant dying for his friends, and he was prepared to do it._

 

_The pain in his leg was dizzying.  He heard another sickening crack as he moved to stand next to Harry. “If you want to kill Harry, you’ll have to kill us too,” he told the grown man standing in front of him.  He clutched desperately to Harry, thinking he would vomit any moment now or pass out from the pain._

 

_“Lie down,” Sirius Black told him.  “You will damage that leg even more.”_

 

_Ron ignored him.  “Did you hear me?” he practically wheezed.  If he let go of Harry, he knew he would collapse.  “You’ll have to kill all three of us!”_

 

_~*~_

 

_“They’re gone!” someone shouted._

 

_“Who’s gone?” he heard another voice yell out._

 

_“Potter and Diggory,” the first voice answered._

 

_Next to him, Ron felt Hermione stiffen.  Without thinking about it, he grabbed for her hand, and held it tightly clasped in his own._

 

_It was agony.  The professors weren’t allowing the students to move from the stands.  They couldn’t see into the maze, and had been relying on the magically enhanced voice of Ludo Bagman to keep them informed about the goings on in the contest._

 

_Ron had felt a deep throb of fear when it was announced the Krum had used an Unforgivable.  The little bugger had been alone with Hermione how many times?  But his heart had thumped proudly when he heard it was Harry who had stopped him, and Harry who was near the cup._

 

_But now, Harry was gone, and so was Diggory._  Was this part of the tournament?  _Looking at the panicked faces of the professors (and Hermione – who probably knew just as much about the tournament) gave him his answer._

 

_They waited impatiently, side by side, for word of Harry.  Ron could hear Hermione mumbling every once in awhile.  On his other side, Ginny sat, looking drawn and pale; she was leaning against George, who held her hand clasped in his._

 

_Finally, after what felt like hours, there was a frenzy of movement near the maze.  Professor Dumbledore was sprinting to where two bodies were attached together.  Ron recognized one of them as Harry and the other as Cedric.  It was impossible to tell who held onto whom._

 

_Voices began floating up to him.  “He’s dead!  He’s dead!”  Someone started to cry._

 

_“Who’s dead?” Fred asked, starting to stand up.  When no one answered, Ron too stood up, pulling Hermione to her feet by their clasped hands._

 

_“Who’s_ _dead?” he demanded harshly.  He could feel his throat start to grow thick with tears.  Beside him, Hermione began to shake._

 

_“Diggory’s dead,” another voice answered, sounding tearful.  “It’s Cedric.  Not Harry.”_

 

_Ron felt a throb of relief unlike anything he’d ever experienced course through him.  He didn’t even bother with feeling guilty about it.  He turned to Hermione, watching her eyes swim with tears.  “It’s not Harry,” he told her, watching relief and guilt war for first place on her face.  “It’s not Harry.  C’mon, let’s go see if we can get to him.”_

 

_Ron pulled Hermione along behind him, knocking people out of the way.  Running toward the maze, he watched Professor Dumbledore lift Harry and set him on his feet.  Harry looked like death; his face was pale; he was bleeding; he appeared to be trembling from head to toe._

 

_Before Ron could force his way through the crowd, Harry had turned and was being led away toward the castle with Moody._

 

_Next to him, two adults he didn’t recognize were talking._

 

_“He said You-Know-Who’s back,” the lady said, looking fearful.  “Said he killed that other boy.”_

 

_Ron heard Hermione gasp.  Her hand squeezed his tightly.  Ron felt his heart fall into his stomach.  You-Know-Who was back?  How in the bloody hell had Harry…?  But it wasn’t too surprising that Harry had survived.  Harry always survived.  Ron knew when he was six that Harry had to survive…that Harry had something in him that made him special.  He knew it at eleven, and at twelve.  He knew it at fourteen and fifteen._

 

 

And he knows it now.

 

He can hear Harry yelling out to him.  Through a fog, he can hear Pettigrew calling out a curse.  But he’s unafraid.  He’s giving the wizarding world their only chance of survival.  

 

He’s making sure Hermione is safe, so that she can go on reading her monstrous books.  He’s making sure Ginny can continue to have her awesome faith in the world, and that Fred and George can continue to make the world laugh; so that his mum can continue to cook amazing meals and Charlie can continue to eat them as if he were a starving man.  He’s making it possible for his dad to smile in the mornings, and for Bill to get married, and so that Percy can properly make up with their family. 

 

He’s making it possible for Harry to survive.

 

The beam of light hits him squarely in the chest.  But it doesn’t hurt.  When everything goes black, Ron has a smile held tightly in his heart.

 

End


End file.
